UC-NRLF 


B   3   lO-^l   7QM 


f     -^  s 


<^<<'^' 


€JQ^ 


IBRARt 


/  5^ 


t^  -^  iSir-oUjji/0.<=^^€t^i-^ 


I* 


^•>'>'^ijC*ir^-;^>45^ 


r-^%=- 


^*^>l^rt^^^ 


%i 


^' 


!.. 


4>^ 


W>\x/ 


'Oi^ 


^?,' 

^ 


»i-» 


*i> 


^ 


NEW    YORK. 

NtU'is  A'  C  'o'-ii  i.f/i 


i^ti  jm—*r  *  tt*/»i  }J  Ywrh 


'% 


w- 


m  €1  %  (I 


Of 


T 


^p" 


K^^ 


-V  A.i 


f^ 


re? 


THE 


FOR 


EDITED    BY 

MRS.    EMELINE     P.     HOWAR  D, 


NEW    YORK: 

PUBLISHED    BY     NAFIS    AND     CORNISH. 
ST.  LOUIS,  MO. :  VAN  DIEN  &  MacDONALD. 


LOAN  STACK 


4 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Conf;ress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

NAFIS    AND    CORNISH, 

in   the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


a      O.    JENKINS,     PRINTER   AND    STEREOTYPER, 

No.  114  Nassau  street.  New  York. 


AYii 


CONTENTS. 


Harry  Lincoln,  Miss  Caroline  E.  Roberts, 

Moss-Rose  and  Cupid,  Editress, 

The  Maid  of  the  Beryl,  Mrs.  Hofland, 

The  Wind,  Miss  0.  E.  Roberts,   ■    . 

Our  Moss-Rose,  Editress, 

The  Life  Clock,  From  the  German, 

Destiny,  F.        .  .  .  . 

Niagara,  Mrs.  E.  A.  Curtiss  Hulce, 

The  Covenant  of  Hearts,  Mrs.  Dumont, 

Trust  in  God,  E.  P.  JImeard, 

The  Snow  Acquaintance, 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass,  3fiss  Sarah  Roberts, 

A  "Wedding  at  School,   .... 

Winter,  E.  P.  H.,  .  .  .  -. 

Prospect  Hill,  Editress, 

Burial  of  the  Consumptive,  Mrs.  E.  A.  G.  Hulce, 

A  Tale  of  the  Woods,   W.  G., 

Night,  Miss  C.  E.  Roberts, 

My  Card-Basket,  Editress, 

Fireside  Verses,  Bernard  Barton, 

Flirtation,        ..... 

Listen!  Miss  G.  E.  Roberts, 


PAGE 
9 

32 

83 

46 

48 

68 

•70 

86 

88 

103 

104 

125 

121 

150 

151 

158 

161 

lU 

175 

ISl 

183 

194 


Z^A 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Reminiscences  of   the  American  Revolution,  A  Soldier  of 
Seventy-six,  ...  .  .  . 

Old-fashioned  Flowers,  3Irs.  E.  A.C.  Hulce, 

Winter  Recollections,  Editress,  .  .  .  . 

Fragment— the  Offering,  E.  P.  H.,  .  .  . 

A  Visit  to  Mount  Hope,  Miss  O.  E.  Roberts, 

My  Bird,  Mrs.  E.   C.  Judson,       .... 

Fatal  Love,  From  the  German,  .  •  .  . 

Song — ^to  a  Lady,  Mrs.  E.  A.  Curtiss  Hulce, 

Fragments  of  My  Early  Life,  .  .  .  . 

The  Inebriate,       .  .  .  .  • 

The  Lost  Eate,  Miss  Gould,    .  .  .  .  ■ 

Alice,  Proteus,      ....•• 

A  Hundred  Years  Ago,  .  .  .  •  • 

My  Cousin  Lucy  and  the  Village  Teacher,  James  Hall,     . 
The  Orphans,  Miss  G.  E.  Roberts,      .  .  .  ■ 

Golden  Dreams,   Wm.  L.  Stone,     .  .  .  ■ 

Fall  from  Paradise,  E.  P.  H, 
Ellen,  Miss  Mary  Russell  Mitford, 


196 
208 
211 
223 
225 
231 
233 
241 
243 
251 
252 
254 
268 
269 
2S8 
290 
298 
800 


EMBELLISHMENTS. 


The  Moss- Rose. 

Vignette. 

Harry  Lincoln, 

♦'  Take  this  Moss-Rose,  too," 

Trust  in  God, 

Winter,       .  .  . 

Fireside  Verses, 

The  Inebriate,       .... 

My  Cousin  Lucy  and  the  Village  Teacher, 

The  Orphans,    .     .     .     . 


9 

48 
103 
150 
ISl 
251 
269 
288 


i 


■I 


PREFACE. 


oil  I  1  love  the  sweet-blooming,  the  pretty  Moss-rose, 
'Tisthn  typo  of  true  pli'Miire  ami  pcrfi'ctcd  joy  ; 

Oil,  1  envy  each  insect  tliat  dares  to  reposo 
'MUl  iti  leaves,  or  among  jLs  soft  beauties  to  toy  I 

I  love  the  sweet  lily,  so  pure  and  so  pale, 
With  a  bosom  as  fair  as  the  new-fallen  snows ; 

Iler  luxuriant  odors  she  spreails  through  the  valo. 
Yet  e'en  she  must  yield  to  my  pretty  Moss-rose. 


Anonymous. 


In  presenting  the  Moss-Rose  for  1850  to  our  read- 
ers, we  do  so  with  diffidence,  knowing  its  high  claims, 
not  only  in  point  of  beauty,  but  in  the  language  of 
flowers.  One  author  interprets  it  "  Superior  Merit ;" 
another,  "  Pleasure  without  alloy ;"  another  still, 
"  Elegance ;"  but  all  agree  in  its  surpassing  excel- 
lence, and  yield  it  the  right  to  the  title  of  "  Excel- 


J5 


sior. 

To  make  this  work  equal,  at  least,  to  the  numerous 
competitors  for  public  favor,  has  been  the  design  and 
earnest  wish  of  the  Editress.  How  far  she  has  sue- 
ceeded,  the  voice  of  its  readers  must  determine.  It 
is  to  be  hoped,  however,  that  within  these  pages,  the 


I 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


Moss-Rose   may   not   be    found  wholly   destitute   of 
beauty  and  fragrance. 

To  an  indulgent  public,  then,  this  book  is  offered, 
with  the  hope  that  it  may  meet  the  approbation,  and 
suit  the  taste  of  those  who  are  friends  to  virtue,  and 
love  flowers. 

E.  P.  H. 

Delhi,  N.  Y.,  June,  1849. 


r- 


-N 


HARRY  LINCOLN. 


BY   MISS   CAROLINE   E.   ROBERTS 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  Too  late ! — oh,  no !  thank  God  !  not  too  late  !"  burst 
from  the  lips  of  Harrj  Lincoln,  as  he  raised  himself  in  the 
stirrups  of  his  noble  war-horse,  and  casting  a  keen,  search- 
ing glance  in  an  easterly  direction,  his  quick  eye  discerned 
that  which  at  first  filled  him  with  despair — then  hope. 
"  Not  too  late !  thank  God  !"  he  reiterated,  and  plunging 
his  spurs  into  his  horse's  sides,  dashed  on  at  a  furious 
pace — on,  on — through  the  tangled  brushwood,  and  low, 
swampy  ground,  where  he  again  lost  sight  of  aught  that 
could  raise  his  fainting  hopes ;  but  upon  reaching  another 
slight  elevation,  once  more  he  raised  himself  in  the  stir- 
rups, and  with  a  face  irradiated  with  joy,  he  hurried  on 
his  rapid  course.  But  hark!  his  well-trained  ear  detects 
the  sound  of  horses'  feet  in  the  distance.  "  They  are  upon 
me !  close  at  my  heels — like  lightning,  my  brave  horse ! 
or  I  am  a  dead  man — or — or — (and  his  voice  lowered)  or 
worse  than  dead — a  prisoner,  (an  inglorious  fate  !)  a  pris- 
oner in  a  strange  land,  among  those  who  love  us  so  little, 
thouofh  we  are  their  brothers  !  But  neither  death  nor  a 
prison  await  me  if  my  good  horse  fail  me  not.  I  saw  our 
fliag  in  the  distance  ;  I  could  not  be  mistaken.  I  shall  yet 
be  saved  !"  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought  the  horse 
2 


10  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

and  rider  to  a  stand  ;  for  within  a  few  rods  of  them  lay  a 
broad  and  beautiful  river,  towards  which  Lincoln  had  been 
hasting  with  such  fearful  speed  ;  and  in  the  agony  of  de- 
spair, he  threw  himself  from  his  horse  and  plunged  into  the 
water.  "  Help  !  help !"  he  cried,  "  in  God's  name,  help  ! 
put  back,  good  fellows  !  Ah  !  they  spy  the  rebels — see, 
they  fire  !  what  a  glorious  discharge  from  the  broadside 
of  our  noble  British  ship  !  they  come  to  ray  rescue  ;  help ! 
help  !  it  is  Harry  Lincoln  !"  and  he  pushed  on  into  the 
stream  as  deep  as  he  dared  venture  ;  being  heavily  accou- 
tred, he  dared  not  give  up  his  foothold.  His  noble  char- 
ger stood  hy,  with  raised  head  and  nostrils  expanded  ;  his 
fiery  eye  glancing  first  on  the  waste  of  waters  before  him, 
then  upon  the  broad  green  country  on  the  other  side,  and 
at  length,  with  almost  human  tenderness,  his  gaze  rested 
upon  the  face  of  his  young  master,  who,  with  his  plumed 
cap  in  one  hand,  raised  high  above  his  head,  and  his  sword 
in  the  other,  seemed  reckless  of  all  else  in  existence  but 
the  little  boat  which  was  nearing  him,  and  on  which  seem- 
ed to  hang  his  chances  of  immediate  life  or  death  ;  but  at 
that  instant  he  turned  his  head,  and  the  kind  glance  of  his 
faithful  horse  met  his  own.  "  We  will  not  part,  well-tried 
friend !"  he  said  ;  "  thou  art  a  good  swimmer,  give  me 
the  reins,  the  ship  is  not  far  off,  the  boat  nears." 

"  Harry  Lincoln  !  are  you  safe  ?"  "  God  bless  you,  did 
you  drop  from  the  clouds,  Harry  ?"  and  many  other  ex- 
clamations of  surprise  and  pleasure  burst  from  the  lips  of 
his  friends  in  the  long-boat,  as  the  brave  young  man  jump- 
ed on  board.  With  the  bridle  of  his  horse  in  one  hand,  he 
steered  (as  it  were)  his  favorite  charger  as  they  moved  out 
into  the  stream,  while,  with  heaving  chest  and  vigorous 
limb,  the  noble  beast  pressed  onward  as  if  he  were  in  his 
native  element. 


HARRY     LINCOLN. 


11 


Harry  Lincoln  was  a  British  officer,  chivalrous  and 
brave — an  officer  in  a  regiment  which  had  displayed  dar- 
ing courage  and  undaunted  valor,  during  many  of  the  early 
battles  in  our  memorable  revolutionary  war.  It  is  not  our 
place  here  to  descant  upon  the  right  or  the  wrong  of  that 
war.  Though  we  have  selected  a  British  officer  for  our 
hero,  we  are  all  American,  and  those  who  know  how  an 
American's  heart  throbs  with  pride  and  pleasure,  as  he 
hears  recounted,  one  by  one,  the  deeds  of  glory  and  of 
blood  by  which  our  independence  was  achieved,  can  judge 
whether  the  so-styled  rebels  have  not  the  warmest  place 
in  our  heart. 


CHAPTER     II. 

But  to  return  to  our  hei'o,  the  young  and  chivalrous 
Harry  Lincoln.  A  few  days  previous  to  the  incidents  re- 
corded in  the  previous  chapter,  he  had  been  sent  out  at 
the  head  of  a  party  to  reconnoitre,  and  had  met  with  a 
small  body  of  the  enemy  ;  upon  which  a  short,  but  severe 
skirmish  ensued.  Lincoln  displayed  great  skill  and  cour- 
age ;  the  enemy  was  completely  routed,  while  his  own 
httle  band  was  almost  unbroken.  "  This  was  an  unex- 
pected rencontre  on  our  part,"  said  Harry  to  one  of  his 
men  ;  "  who  can  tell  but  it  may  lead  to  similar  skirmishes  ? 
It  may  yet  be  weeks  before  we  leave  this  hated  country  ; 
though  the  ship  is  under  sailing  orders,  we  may  be  de- 
tained longer  than  most  of  us  would  wish."  And  here  in 
spite  of  himself  a  deep  sigh  escaped  from  his  manly  breast; 
for  thoughts  of  a  pleasant  home  and  loving  faces  in  dear 
old  England  came  to  his  mind.     "But  come,  my  men  ;  we 


12  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

had  better  return  and  report  to  our  commander ;  are  we  all 
here  ?  I  will  call  the  roll ;"  and  voice  after  voice  answer- 
ed as  the  name  was  called.  Many  of  the  men  were  wound- 
ed, but  none  severely  ;  some  came  forward  with  an  arm  in 
a  sling  ;  or  limping  a  little,  with  a  handkerchief  about  the 
knee ;  and  other  indications  of  the  severe  conflict  in  which 
they  had  been  engaged ;  but  as  yet,  none  were  missing. 
The  last  name  was  called — "John  Duncan" — no  answer. 
"  Where  is  Duncan  ? — is  he  not  among  you  ?" 

"Was  he  in  the  company?"  said  one;  "  I  have  not 
seen  him." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  he  was  in  the  early  part  of  the  engagement. 
I  saw  him  wheel  round  upon  one  of  the  dastardly  rebels, 
and  the  poor  fellow  got  a  shot  from  Duncan,  which  he 
will  not  forget  very  readily — but  where  is  Duncan  ?" 

"  Ay  !  ay  !  where  is  Duncan  ?"  was  echoed  from  mouth 
to  mouth. 

"  Look  among  the  underbrush  and  low  trees,"  said 
Lincoln  ;  "  he  may  be  wounded,  and  have  crawled  away 
to  die."  Search  was  made  for  him,  but  all  in  vain.  Asfain 
the  young  officer  summoned  his  men  ;  and  giving  the  com- 
mand to  an  officer  next  in  rank,  he  proposed  going  in  ad- 
vance, in  order  to  discover  where  poor  Duncan  had  fled. 
"  I  may  yet  discover  him,"  said  he  ;  "  he  may  have  gone 
in  advance  ;"  and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  was  out 
of  sight  in  an  instant.  He  had  not  proceeded  above  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  when  he  saw  in  the  distance  a  horse 
standing  quietly,  with  his  head  bent,  as  if  gazing  upon 
some  object  at  his  feet.  Lincoln  immediately  recognized 
Duncan's  horse.  "  Duncan  is  thrown,  poor  follow — killed, 
perhaps — alas  !  who  can  tell !"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
hastened  to  the  spot.  There  stood  the  horse,  and  lying 
beside  him  on  the  turf  was  poor  Dun«an  !  one  arm  fearfully 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  13 

mangled  ;  and  on  his  face  seemed  settled  the  pallor  of 
death. 

"  Duncan  !  Duncan  !  my  good  Duncan  !  speak — are 
you  yet  living  ?  Speak,  Duncan  !"  said  Lincoln,  as  he 
jumped  from  his  horse,  and  was  beside  him  in  an  instant. 
"  Taste  this,"  said  he,  as  he  poured  a  few  drops  of  cor- 
dial from  a  small  flask  which  he  drew  from  his  knapsack, 
upon  the  pale  lips  of  the  apparently  lifeless  soldier.  At 
the  taste  of  the  cordial,  Duncan  revived  a  little,  but 
almost  immediately  relapsed  into  seeming  death. 

"  Hasten,  comrades  !  hasten  my  good  fellows !"  shouted 
Lincoln  to  his  men  in  the  distance  ;  and  as  they  approached, 
he  raised  the  wounded  man,  and  laid  his  head  upon  his 
knees,  and  with  his  sash  bound  up  the  fearful  wound 
from  which  the  life-torrent  was  fast  flowinsf.  "Water! 
water  !  Allen  !"  said  he  to  the  man  who  first  approached — 
and  Lincoln  proceeded  to  bathe  the  pallid  face  of  Duncan, 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  woman.  The  moist  hair  was 
brushed  back  from  his  temples.  "  He  breathes,"  said 
one  of  the  men,  who  with  his  ear  bent  closely  to  Duncan's 
chest,  had  caught  the  sound  of  a  faint  pulsation  ;  "  he  is 
living  !"  and  as  he  spoke,  Duncan  unclosed  his  eyes,  and 
muttered — 

"  It  was  a  death- wound  !  I  felt  it !  I  felt  it !"  They 
motioned  him  to  be  silent,  and  with  the  aid  of  the  poor 
restoratives  they  had,  he  was  soon  enabled  to  raise  him- 
self, and  look  about  him. 

"  Ah !  he  will  be  better  soon,"  said  Lincoln,  "  you 
must  proceed  forward  and  report  to  our  commander  ;  I 
will  tarry  behind  with  Duncan.  He  will  soon  be  strong 
enough  to  mount  his  horse,  and  we  will  follow." 

"No,  no!  let  me  remain,  captain,''  said  several  of  the 
soldiers;  "  you  go  forward  with  the  men." 


14  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  No,  no  !"  replied  Harry,  "  Duncan  is  my  charge  ;  for 
three  years  he  has  been  my  tried,  faithful  adherent.  His 
father  entrusted  him  to  my  care,  when  he  left  old  Eng- 
land. I  dare  not  leave  him — we  will  follow — perhaps  in  a 
couple  of  hours  we  shall  be  able  to  start." 

"  God  bless  you,  captain  ;  God  bless  you  !"  said  Duncan, 
and  feeling  still  weak  and  faint,  he  reclined  his  head 
against  a  tree  which  was  near  him,  and  closed  his  eyes 
In  a  moment,  and  the  men  were  called  to  order ;  and 
"  Cheer  up,  Duncan  !"  "  Don't  be  down-hearted,  boy  ; 
you  will  be  ready  to  join  the  regiment  in  a  few  days,  when 
we  sail  for  home  !"  and  many  more  such  kind  exclama- 
tions, to  raise  the  fainting  heart  of  poor  Duncan,  as  the 
men  wheeled  off,  and  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  died 
away,  and  young  Lincoln  was  left  alone  with  the  wounded 
man. 

"  Come,  come,  Duncan !  cheer  up  ;  why  you  have  a 
faint  heart,  Duncan,  not  to  bear  up  under  such  a  wound 
as  that.  Think  of  your  father,  and  Bessie,  and  our  own 
dear  England,  for  which  we  are  so  soon  to  set  sail ;  we 
shall  be  on  our  passage  home  in  a  week's  time ;  think  of 
that,  Duncan  !" 

"  You,  but  not  I,  master  Harry ! — you,  but  not  I  !  I 
feel  it  here,"  (and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  head,)  "  and 
here,"  (and  he  pressed  his  hand  upon  his  heart,)  "  but 
yet — home — you  said  we  should  be  home  soon ;  you,  but 
not  I !  oh,  master  Harry,  my  father — you  spoke  of  him — 
God  bless  my  old  father — soon  he  will  have  no  son  to 
love  and  talk  about — my  poor  old  father — and  Bessie — 
what  will  Bessie  do  without  me  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Duncan,  you  miist  not  talk  so — here" — 
and  taking  one  of  the  cloaks  the  men  had  left  behind,  and 
rolling  it  up — "  here — take  this  for  a  pillow,  Duncan  ;  and 


HARRY     LINCOLN 


16 


lie  back — with  a  little  more  of  the  cordial  and  a  short 
sleep,  you  will  soon  be  able  to  join  the  men,  and  we  will 
see  what  the  surgeon  can  do  to  your  arm.  I  will  cover 
you  with  my  cloak — lie  still,  and  all  will  be  well.  We  will 
remain  here  until  the  morning — I  think  it  will  be  wise.  I 
will  keep  watch  by  you  while  you  sleep." 


CHAPTER     III. 


The  sun  was  just  then  setting,  and  lighting  up  with  his 
cheering  rays  the  beautiful  tree-tops  and  quiet  dells  of 
that  lovely  retreat — the  birds  soared  on  light  wing  with 
hearts  full  of  music,  as  thej^  poured  forth  their  evening- 
song,  and  quietly  dropped  down  in  their  nests  in  the 
shady  greenwood — the  timid  hare  ran  with  fleet  step 
across  the  rude  pathway,  pausing  with  erect  ears,  ever 
and  anon,  to  listen  to  the  many  sounds  which  her  keen 
sense  of  hearing  alone  can  detect ;  for  Nature,  in  her  soli- 
tude, ever  seems  silent  to  us — occasionally  a  noble  deer, 
with  tall  antlers,  would  walk  leisurely  by,  stopping  to 
quench  his  thirst  at  the  water-brook,  and  as  he  raised  his 
head  from  the  cooling  stream,  would  cast  an  upward 
glance  with  his  full,  soft  eye,  as  if  looking  a  thanksgiving 
for  the  good  gifts  of  God  to  him. 

Night  stole  on,  draperied  in  her  garment  of  stars,  and 
the  moon  arose — and  still  sat  Harry  Lincoln  alone  in  that 
wilderness  with  the  wounded,  and  perhaps  dying  man. 
For  a  Avhile  he  sat  with  his  body  inclined  forward,  his 
head  resting  upon  his  hand — now  and  then  a  deep  sigh 
escaped  his  breast,  as  if  from  a  heart  ovei'burdened  with 
.  anxiety — not  grief.     It  was  a  picture  for  a  painter — the 


16  T  11  E     MO  S  S  -  R  O  S  E  . 

wounded  man  lying  there,  the  bright  moon  lighting  up 
his  ghastly  features — with  a  soldier's  cloak  for  a  pillow, 
and  a  soldier's  cloak  for  a  covering — the  young  officer, 
vigorous  and  manly,  sitting  in  such  an  attitude  of  profound 
abstraction — his  uncovered  head  resting  upon  his  hands, 
his  plumed  cap  beside  him  on  the  turf — these  two  only 
human  creatures  in  that  great  solitude — let  us  add  to  the 
picture  the  noble  war-horse  of  Lincoln,  who,  with  loose 
rein,  was  cropping  the  fresh  dewy  herbage,  and  the  more 
humble  horse  of  an  humbler  master,  standing  unheeded 
at  no  -Treat  distance,  with  drooping  head  and  melancholy 
air,  as  if  he  apprehended  evil  to  himself  and  owner. 

"He  sleeps  quietly,"  said  Lincoln  to  himself;  "how 
heavily  he  breathes !  Is  it  well  that  he  should  be  thus  ? 
I  will  rouse  him,  and  make  him  once  more  take  the  cor- 
dial. I  will  strike  a  light — but  no,  no — I  dare  not — who 
knows  how  near  the  enemy  may  be,  and  light  would  be 
like  a  signal  to  show  them  where  we  are.  It  is  a  blessed 
thing  that  the  moon  shines  so  brightly.  How  still  it  is  ! 
I  wish  Allen  had  remained  with  us — not  that  I  fear  for 
myself — for  my  horse  is  the  fleetest  in  our  whole  little 
army — but  I  could  not  leave  Duncan  should  we  be  dis- 
covered. Take  this,  Duncan — it  Avill  build  you  up  soon !" 
and  poor  Duncan  heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  and  opened  his 
lids  slowly. 

"  Is  it  you,  master  Harry  ?  God  bless  you  !" — he  closed 
them  again,  and  slept  once  more. 

Night  wore  on — hour  after  hour  glided  by — and  by  the 
moonlight  Harry  saw  his  watch  point  to  half-p;ist  two 
o'clock,  and  still  he  kept  his  lone  vigil.  Suddenly  Dun- 
can unclosed  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him. 

"  Yes,  yes,  father !"  ho  exclaimed,  "  I  have  come 
back — your  own  poor  Jolni  has  come  back — but  where  is 


L 


HARRY      LINCOLN.  17 

Bessie !  it  is  me,  Bessie — your  own  Duncan,  come  back  to 
England  again — father — Bessie — where  am  I — how  dark 
it  is — no  lights — oh,  yes  !  the  moon — where  am  I !  who 
is  this  !  Oh,  now  I  know — master  Harry — master  Harry 
— I  am  wounded — I  am  dying.  Don't  tell  me  I  shall  be 
well — I  was  dreaming  of  father  and  Bessie.  I  am  dying 
— come  close  to  me,  master  Harry — will  you  take  poor 
Duncan's  hand  in  yours,  while  he  utters  the  last  words 
which  his  poor  lips  will  ever  speak" — 

"  You  have   been   dreaming,   Dxmcan,   don't  talk  so  ; 
you  are  not  dying  ;  you  must  not  talk." 

"  Just  place  your  hand  here,  Master  Harry  ;  what  a 
faint  fluttering  is  there,  like  a  bird  in  a  cage,  trying  to  get 
free.  It  is  my  life  fluttering  there,  trying  to  be  freed  ; 
it  will  soon  return  to  Him  who  gave  it.  Bear  my  dying 
words  to  my  old  father,  captain  ;  tell  him  I  wish  I  had  been 
a  more  dutiful  son.  But  God  will  forgive  me ;  God  is 
very  kind  to  me.  He  has  permitted  my  young  master  to 
be  with  me  in  my  last  hour  ;  may  the  same  good  God 
give  him  strength  to  bear  up  imder  my  loss  !  But  he  is 
old.  Master  Harry,  and  he  will  follow  me  soon.  But  Bes- 
sie !  my  gentle,  lovely  Bessie  !  What  a  sad,  sad  heart  will 
be  that  of  my  dear,  dear  Bessie  !  what  a  sad  heart  to  bear 
about  her  all  her  lifetime !  Tell  her  I  thous^ht  of  her  at 
the  last,  and  pity  her.  Captain,  be  kind  to  Bessie,  and 
in  your  happiest  hours  think  of  her — so  lonely,  so  discon- 
solate !  and,  pardon  me,  captain,  but  should  you  ever 
wed  your  own  gentle  friend.  Miss  Weston,  will  you  not  let 
Bessie  come  and  live  with  you  ?  She  always  loved  Miss 
Mary,  and  I  should  be  more  willing  to — to — die,  if  I  felt 
Bessie  was  cared  for.  For  the  sake  of  your  faithful  Dun- 
can,  be   kind  to  my  Bessie  ;  tell  her  kindly  how  I  died — 

alone — at  night — in  a  strange  land — with  none  but  you 
9*  -        .   _ 


18  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

and  the  good  God  to  watch  over  me.  My  strength  is  al- 
most gone,  but  I  must  speak  while  I  can.  God  be  merciful 
to  me !  Christ  be  merciful  to  me  !  Farewell !  captain  ; 
God  will  bless  you — my  father — Bessie  !  I  am  dying." 
A  convulsive  shudder  passed  over  his  frame — his  breath- 
ing became  rapid  and  painful.  "  Captain  !  are  you  here  ?" 
His  head  dropped  back — and  Harry  Lincoln  was  alone 
with  the  dead*. 


CHAPTER     IV. 

Alone  with  the  dead — in  the  hush  of  night — in  a  wil- 
derness— perhaps  in  instant  danger  of  being  surprised  by  a 
dreaded  enemy  !  It  was  not  an  enviable  position  ;  poor 
Lincoln  felt  lonely  indeed.  He  had  lost  an  honest  and 
faithful  attendant,  and  shall  we  call  him  unmanly  if  we  say 
that  the  hot  tears  chased  one  another  down  his  cheek, 
and  dropped  upon  the  pallid  face  of  the  dead  man  ? 
With  an  unsteady  hand  he  closed  those  eyes,  now  glazed 
in  death,  and  with  a  sad  shudder  he  .straightened  those  fast 
stiffening  limbs  upon  the  green  turf,  laid  his  cloak  decently 
over  the  cold  body,  and  quietly  waited  the  dawning  of 
day,  that  he  might  look  about  for  a  place  in  which  to  de- 
posite  the  lifeless  remains.  He  thought  of  Duncan's  last 
■words — of  his  old  father — and  the  young  Bessie  ;  and  he 
removed  the  covering  of  the  ill-starred  dead,  and  unsheath- 
ing his  sword,  severed  a  lock  of  iiair  from  liis  head,  and 
felt  if  he  might  not  ilnd  some  keepsake,  which  might  bring 
a  ray  of  comfort  to  the  sad  hearts  which  his  death  would 
cause.  lie  drew  from  his  breast  a  small  psalm-book, 
in  which  the  name  of  Bessie  Gray  was   written,  a  much 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  19 

worn  letter,  and  a  few  other  trifling  articles  found  about 
his  person,  all  of  which  were  carefully  deposited  in  the 
knapsack  of  the  poor  young  man,  and  fastened  with  Lin- 
coln's own,  securely  to  the  horse. 

As  the  day  dawned,  with  a  heavy  heart  Lincoln  began 
to  look  about  him  for  a  place  where  he  might  safely  de- 
posit the  body  of  Duncan,  until  his  own  men  could  come 
to  give  him  decent  burial.  He  removed  the  low  brush 
away,  and  with  the  hilt  of  his  sword  raised  the  light  earth, 
and  then  drawing  the  pale  corpse  slowly  along,  he  laid  it 
within  its  rude  grave,  clasped  the  pale  hands  over  the 
quiet  breast,  and  with  uncovered  head  he  knelt  upon  the 
sod,  and  uttered  a  low-voiced  prayer  over  the  silent  sleep- 
er ;  then  throwing  the  earth  lightly  over  him,  and  re- 
placing the  low  shrubs  and  brush,  he  left  him  with  a  sad 
farewell.  "  Farewell !  honest  and  brave  friend  !  Fare- 
well !  honest  Duncan !  Sleep  sweetly  here,  brave  heart ; 
rest  thee  alone  in  this  wild  forest,  until  the  last  great  day, 
when  the  voice  of  the  Lord  shall  be  beard  by  thee,  calling 
thee  to  thy  reward  !" 

The  day  had  dawned,  and  the  clouds  about  the  eastern 
sky  were  already  tinged  with  hues  of  crimson  and  gold, 
heralds  of  the  coming  king  of  day.  Lincoln  had  turned 
away  from  the  lowly  grave  of  his  honest  Duncan,  and  was 
preparing  to  mount  his  horse,  when  a  too  familiar  sound 
broke  upon  his  ear — the  trample  of  horses'  hoofs  in  the 
distance,  rapidly  approaching.  "  I  must  lose  no  time," 
said  he  ;  "  they  are  upon  me  !"  and  he  bounded  into  his 
saddle.  "  Duncan's  horse,  poor  fellow,  I  must  leave  him  ; 
like  lightning,  my  brave  steed !"  and  on,  on  he  dashed. 
His  horse  seemed  to  fly  ;  the  enemy  could  not  gain  upon 
him  ;  it  seemed  days  instead  of  hours  to  the  young  officer 
as  he  rode  on,  and  on  ;  till  at  length,  from  a  rising  ground, 


20  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

he  espied  the  flag  of  an  English  ship  in  the  distance ;  and 
dashing  on  with  his  faithful  horse,  he  reached  the  shore, 
as  we  have  seen,  in  time  to  be  taken  on  board  the  long- 
boat, which  had  just  pushed  out  in  the  stream,  and  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  many  a  friendly  voice  ;  and  the  tale 
of  poor  Duncan's  death  was  told,  and  his  lonely  grave  in 
the  wilderness;  and  many  a  rough  voice  trembled,  and 
tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  those  hard-featured 
men,  as  they  listened  to  the  melancholy  recital. 


CHAPTER    V. 

We  have  said  that  Harry  Lincoln  was  brave  and  chiv- 
alrous ;  we  have  seen  that  he  had  a  kind  and  noble  heart, 
and  deep  religious  feeling  ;  let  us  add,  that  he  was  young, 
handsome,  and  of  good  descent,  and  we  have  a  hero 
worthy  a  romance.  Many  a  fair  face  had  watched  the 
brave  young  captain  in  his  military  manoeuvres,  many  a 
gentle  eye  had  looked  kindly  upon  him ;  and  may  we  not 
add,  that,  even  in  our  colonial  region,  at  that  time,  some 
few  of  the  fair  dames  would  not  unwillingly  have  ex- 
changed freedom  from  England,  for  a  loving,  manly  heart 
in  England,  any  day.  Not  that  T  would  speak  disparag- 
ingly of  the  patriotism  of  our  American  ladies — no,  no, 
ladies  are  loyal  if  those  they  love  are  loyal — and  to  the 
last  will  urge  a  brother,  husband,  or  lover  on  to  victory 
and  glory,  in  what  is  termed  by  them  the  right  cause. 
Our  revolutionary  annals  tell  many  wonderful  tales  of 
woman's  untiring  patriotism  and  heroic  deeds;  but  the 
heart  was  in  it — the  woman's  heart,  the  same  every- 
where— the  unselfish,  loving  woman.     It  was  not  that  the 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  .  21 

colonists  were  right  and  the  British  wrong ;  it  was  not 
that  the  one  were  oppressed  and  the  other  ruthless  op- 
pressors ;  no,  it  was  that  those  she  loved  were  on  the  one 
side,  and  those  for  whom  she  cared  not  were  on  the  other. 
I  do  no  injustice  to  woman  in  thus  speaking;  let  each  of 
the  gentle  sex  look  within  her  own  breast  and  see  if  above 
all — love  of  life,  of  country,  and  of  home,  high,  high 
above,  just  this  side  heaven — there  is  not  a  motive  of  deep 
love  towards  some  cherished  one,  which  prompted  her  to 
urge  him  on  to  victory  or  death  ;  it  is  that  the  loved  one's 
cause  might  triumph ;  the  loved  one's  hopes  be  answered ; 
the  loved  one's  home  be  made  secure  and  peaceful ;  the 
loved  one's  death  be  glorious. 

Two  weeks  have  elapsed — two  weeks  of  suspense  and 
anxiety,  and  the  ship  in  which  was  embarked  the  regi- 
ment to  which  young  Lincoln  belonged  had  swung  from 
her  moorings,  and  was  on  her  way  to  "  meriy  England." 
Many  of  the  men  on  board  had  been  absent  three  and  four 
years  from  their  home ;  and  communication  with  the 
fatherland  was  at  that  time  very  iincertain,  and  months 
would  often  elapse  without  receiving  a  word  from  those 
dear  ones  who  had  been  left  behind.  And  now  the  ship 
is  under  sail.  Homeward — homeward-bound  is  the  word. 
How  infinite  was  the  variety  of  hopes  and  fears,  and 
anxious  hearts  which  were  crowded  into  that  small  space  ! 
and  who  could  divine  what  was  passing  within  the  bosom  of 
a  fellow-passenger !  Some  seemed  sad  and  thoughtful — 
others  bustling  and  active — some  calm  and  happy.  What 
changes  may  have  taken  place  in  the  home  of  each  since 
they  left !  How  many  will  seek  in  vain  for  those  whom  they 
left  blooming  and  happy  !  The  quiet  church-yard  may  tell 
many  a  story  unlearned  before  ;  and  home  may  no  longer 
be  home  to  those  who  most  eagerly  anticipate  a  return. 


22  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

But   where  is    our    young   hero,  the   gallant    Captain 
Lincoln  ?     He  is  sitting  quietly  at  the  bow  of  the   vessel, 
watching  apparently  the  progress  of  the  ship  through  the 
deep-blue  waters  ;  but  though  his  head   is  bent,  his  eye 
does  not  see  the  waters.     Is  it  fixed   on  vacancy  ?     No  ! 
it  is,  as  it  were,  turned  within,  and  he  is  reading  a  tale  of 
his  own  hopes  and  fears   in  his  own  heart-book.    His  atti- 
tude is  one  of  deep  thought  and  abstraction  ;  his  heart  is 
now  in  dear  old  Enofland — he  treads  over  the  well-known 
ground — a  gentle   eye    meets  his — a  small,  white    hand 
clasps  his  own — "  Mary,  dear  Mary  !"  escapes  unawares 
from  his  lips — he  draws  from  his  bosom  a  small  golden 
case,  and  touching  a  secret  spring,  disclosed  a  miniature  to 
his  eager  eye.     It  might  have  been  the  face  of  an  angel 
painted  there — so  fair,  so  young — eyes  like  the  violet's 
cup,  and   hair  like    threads  of  gold.      One   hasty  glance, 
and  the  treasure  is  returned  to  its  hiding-place.     It  might 
have  been  the  face  of  a  sister  there  depicted  ;  but  young 
men  of  six-and-twenty  do  not  generally  heave  such  deep 
sighs    over  a  sister's  miniatiire ;  neither   are  they    very 
likely  to  wear  a  sister's  picture  next  their  heart.    We  have 
giiessed  aright — it  was   no  sister — it  was  the  face  of  the 
fair  Miss  Weston,  to  whom  poor  Duncan  confided  his  dear 
Bessie  ;  it  was  the  gentle  Mary  of  the  noble  youth's  medi- 
tative reverie,  as  he  sat  upon  the  bow  of  the  vessel,  that 
summer  evening. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


But  who  is  this  fair  Mary  Weston  of  young  Lincoln's 
day-dreams  ?     Reader,  she  was  but  a  woman — a  gentle, 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  23 

loving  woman — naj',  child,  I  might  say,  with  a  woman's 
heart.  Her  father  was  a  retired  officer  in  the  British 
army,  and  it  was  through  his  iniluence  that  Harry  ob- 
tained his  appointment  in  the  service.  He  rented  a  small 
cottage,  not  far  from  the  retired  home  of  our  brave  hero. 
Mary  was  an  only  child — left  motherless  at  an  early  age — 
confided  to  the  care  of  a  faithful  nurse — the  sfood,  old 
Nannie,  who  had  loved  her  as  if  she  were  her  own  little 
daughter  ;  and  if  Mary  Weston  could  have  been  spoiled  by 
over-indulgence,  we  think  Nannie  might  have  spoiled  her ; 
'but  there  are  some  few  who  are  all  the  better,  and  more 
loveable  for  being  spoiled,  if  I  may  so  speak ;  who  possess 
such  warm  sympathies ;  are  "  so  keenly  alive  to  all  sensa- 
tions," (as  some  writer  hath  it,)  who  make  such  continual 
demands  upon  the  love  and  sympathy  of  those  about 
them  ;  who  twine  themselves  in  and  about  the  heart,  and 
to  whom  an  unkind  word  would  seem  like  inflictinor  the 
point  of  a  dagger,  so  heavily  would  it  wound,  that  one 
cannot  choose  but  grant  all  the  demands  made  upon  them; 
and  every  one  seemed  inclined  to  help  Nannie  in  indulging 
the  little,  lovely  Mary.  Harry  Lincoln  could  not  remem- 
ber the  time  when  he  did  not  love  Mary.  From  early 
boyhood,  it  had  been  his  delight  to  ramble  with  her,  over 
hill  and  dell — to  gather  wild  flowers — to  peep  into  bird's 
nests — to  help  her  make  her  little  garden — to  assist  her 
at  her  lessons,  and  be  a  companion  on  all  occasions.  As 
Motherwell  says  of  his  Jeanie  Morrison,  our  hero  might 
say  of  his  Mary  : 

"  'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 
'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time — sad  time — twa  baimies  then — 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart." 

But  unlike  the  lover  of  "  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison,"  the 


24  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

time  did  never  come  "  when  first,  fond  love  grows  cool," 
for  Harry  had  never  doubted  the  love  of  his  dear  Mary ; 
neither  had  she  in  her  turn  ever  dreamed  that  there  was 
another  man  to  love  save  Harry  Lincoln. 

That  Mary  was  beautiful,  as  she  was  gentle  and  loving, 
we  have  seen  from  the  hasty  glimpse  we  caught  of  that 
treasure  worn  next  Harry's  heart:  like  the  wild  rose,  graceful 
and  beautiful  she  had  grown  up,  and  with  him  every  day 
seemed  to  add  some  new  charm  to  her  fair  person  ;  her 
eye  was  indeed  blue  as  the  violet's  cup  when  filled  with 
dew  and  glistening  in  the  sunlight  ;  and  her  fair  hair  did 
seem  like  threads  of  golden  light,  as  it  hung  about  her 
face  and  shoulders,  as  a  gilded  cloud.  Harry  could  not 
have  found  a  more  beautiful  picture  to  gaze  upon  than 
this  tableau  vivant  —  this  living  picture,  which,  in  an 
endless  variety  of  attitude  and  expression,  filled  the  gallery 
of  his  memory,  and  to  which  he  loved  to  revert,  over  and 
over  again.  How  the  love  of  boyhood  deepened  into  a 
holier  and  tenderer  passion,  neither  could  tell ;  when  the 
name  of  Harry  first  brought  the  crimson  blush  to  Mary's 
cheek,  and  made  her  heart  beat  quickly,  she  never  knew ; 
but  the  time  had  come — that  heaven  on  earth — that  lov- 
ing and  being  loved  had  been  experienced,  and  they  were 
most  happy.  But  the  hour  of  parting  had  come;  the 
boy-lover  had  received  a  commission,  and  was  soon  to  join 
his  regiment.  Poor  Mary  !  the  first  parting  seemed  very 
hard  ;  but  for  some  time  he  did  not  leave  the  country, 
and  often  a  week's  leave  was  obtained,  and  he  would 
hasten  to  gladden  the  heart  of  his  mother,  and  fill  Mary's 
bosom  with  delight  and  pride  by  his  unexpected  visits. 
But  the  regiment  was  ordered  to  America ;  the  rebellious 
colo7iists  must  be  kept  under.  That  parting  was  a  sad 
one.     His  mother,  on  whom  he  most  fondly  doated,  folded 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  25 

liini  to  her  heart :  a  mother's  speechless  grief,  as  she 
gives  up  her  cherished  one,  who  can  tell ! 

"  I  shall  be  back  again,  mother ;  you  must  write  me 
every  week,  and  tell  me  about  yourself  and  the  dear 
home.  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  mother,  and  encourage 
your  soldier  son." 

It  was  Mary's  first  great  sorrow — this  parting  for  years, 
and  perhaps  forever,  from  him  whom  she  loved  better 
than  life.  She  clung  to  him  in  the  agony  of  desperation  ; 
it  seemed  as  if  the  depths  of  her  heart  were  broken  up ; 
she  sobbed  and  wept  tears  of  such  real  grief — she  hardly 
knew  she  loved  him  so  much.  He  was  gone — she  was 
alone — alone.  Had  she  not  done  wrong  to  distress  Harry  ? 
But  she  loved  him  so  much — she  would  write  cheerful 
letters — she  would  go  and  see  his  good  mother  every  day 
— she  would  prove  her  love  by  many  deeds  of  devotion 
and  kindness — and  she  kept  her  word. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Reader !  we  have  no  tale  of  lovers'  trials,  and  hair- 
breadth escapes  ;  no  estrangement  of  loving  hearts  brought 
together  again  by  some  romance  or  concocted  miracle  ;  no 
mysteries  to  clear  up  ;  no  surprise  to  astonish ;  no  re- 
criminations ;  no  heart-burnings  ;  jealousy  even,  the  stra- 
tum upon  which  most  novels  are  founded,  has  no  part  to 
play  in  this  short  story. 

The  passage  of  our  good  British  ship  had  no  more  than 
the  usual  complement  of  high  winds  and  rough  weather, 
and  in  due  time  arrived  at  her  destined  port.  We  will 
pass  over  the  voyage,  and   steal  upon   our  favorite,  the 


-^  THE      MOSS-ROSE. 

young  Lincoln,  as  he  walks  quietly  through  a  shady  and 
pleasant    road,  within   two  miles  of   his    native    hamlet. 
The  coach  had  left  him  a  few  moments  before,  or  ralher 
he  had  left  the  coach,  as  he  wishes  to  come   unheralded 
to  his  own  cottage  home,  and  stealthily  catch  a  glimpse  of 
its  inmates.     He  takes  a  narrow  and  verdant  lane,  so  that 
he  might  meet  none  who  would  recognize  him.     It  was  an 
evening  in  early  autumn;  he   pauses  a  moment   to  look 
about  him,  and  convince  himself  he  is  not  dreaminor  of  the 
verdant  hedge-rows,  the   fine  broad  fields,  yet  fresh  and 
beautiful  ;  the  gallant  shade-trees  in  all  their  glory,  as  vet 
unchanged  in    foliage;    the  many  gaudy   flowers   which 
gleam  out  and  meet  his  eye  from  small  cottage  gardens — 
the  brilliant  aster  and  golden  marygold,  and  others  equally 
rich  and  gorgeous  in  their  attire.     He  wishes  to  convince 
himself  that  it  is  not  all  a  dream,  but  a  refreshing  welcome 
home  to  him,  after  over  three  years'   absence  and  hard 
service.     It  was  a  lovely   evening  ;  the  western  sky  was 
gorgeously  apparelled   in  clouds  of   purple    and  amber, 
shading  off  into  delicate  tints    tinged    with    blue,   which 
seemed  to  add  a  new  brilliancy  to   all   above  and  below. 
On,  on,  he  went,  meeting  now  and  then  a  laborer  return- 
ing from  his    field  ;  or    a  lazy  school-boy  who  turned  to 
look  at  the  tall  gentleman  as   he  passed  on  :  his  mother's 
cottage  is  in  sight — he  approaches  it  with  a  beating  heart. 
It  looks  just  as  it  did  three  years  ago — his  favorite  flowers 
were  cared  for — the  clematis  and  honeysuckle  about  the 
door  looked  as  though  they  lacked   not  careful  culture — 
the  very  same  cat  sat  with  half-shut  eyes  in  the  sunny 
window — the  mellow-voiced  canary  chirped   in  his  wire- 
bound  cage. 

"  I  will  steal  round  to  my  mother's  room — perchance   I 
may  catch  a  peep  at  her  before  I  announce  my  approach. 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  27 

If  I  recollect  right,  the  vines  were  thick  over  the  western 
window,"  he  said,  as  he  proceeded  accordingly.  The 
casement  was  thickly  shaded  by  rich  vines ;  and  he  stood 
a  mocaent  and  gazed  upon  a  picture  that  pleased  him  well. 
In  a  low,  well-cushioned  chair,  at  an  opposite  window,  sat 
his  .much-loved  mother ;  her  cheek  was  pale,  as  if  from 
recent  illness.  The  delicate  outline  of  her  countenance, 
shaded  by  its  cap  of  simple  lace — the  loose,  white  dress, 
and  heavy  shawl  about  the  shoulders,  all  spoke  a  conva- 
lescent. Her  eyes  are  bent  with  much  love  upon  a  fair 
girl  sitting  upon  a  low  seat  beside  her ;  a  form  light  and 
graceful,  shrouded  in  habiliments  of  deep  mourning,  which 
fall  in  heavy  folds  upon  the  floor — the  head  is  averted 
slightly.  Harry's  heart  beats  quickly — can  he  mistake 
the  rose-leaf  tint  of  that  fair  cheek,  and  the  liffht  cloud  of 
golden  hair,  which  contrasts  so  richly  with  the  sable  dress  ? 
— the  delicate  hand  laid  upon  an  open  book — a  small 
volume — but  he  fancies  he  recognizes  the  velvet  cover 
and  golden  clasp  as  a  familiar  friend.  Will  his  heart  never 
cease  beating,  that  he  may  catch  the  sounds  uttered  from 
the  lips  of  those  dear  ones  ?  The  young  girl  had  evidently 
just  been  reading,  for  suddenly  her  voice  ceased,  and  her 
head  dropped  upon  her  book ;  and  sobs  burst  forth  from 
an  over-charged  heart. 

"  Sometimes  I  can  bear  it  better  than  I  do  now — 
indeed,  indeed,  I  can — but,  oh,  it  is  so  very  lonely  !  I 
am  very  sad  to-night ;  I  try  to  feel  that  it  is  all  right,  but 
home  is  very  lonely.  If  Harry  only  would  come  back — 
but  my  heart  sickens  when  I  think  another  year  may  still 
find  him  far  away.  His  absence  seemed  lighter  to  bear 
when  I  had  my  beloved  father  to  love  and  care  for,  but 
now" — 

It  was  not  exactly  wise  in  Harry  Lincoln  to  spring  into 


28  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

that  open  window,  (to  what  detriment  to  his  mother's 
well-trained  vines  we  need  not  say,)  to  clasp  his  now 
orphaned  Mary  to  his  heart — to  fold  his  mother  in  a  warm 
embrace — and  ask  each  if  it  would  be  lonely  now  he  had 
come  back  to  share  the  solitude?  What  an  evening 
of  perfect  happiness,  if  such  there  be  in  this  life,  was 
that  of  which  we  write  !  And  yet  there  were  many  tears 
shed,  and  many  sad  recollections  brought  up.  He  learned 
of  the  short  illness  and  happy  death  of  Mary's  father — 
of  his  mother's  long  and  dangerous  illness,  and  slow 
recovery  ;  and  in  his  turn,  poor  Duncan's  melancholy  end 
was  spoken  of ;  and  the  thought  of  poor  Bessie  Grey's 
deep  sorrow  seemed  to  impress  Mary  Weston  strongly. 
It  was  a  pleasant  walk  for  the  young  lovers  to  Mary's 
lonely  home — through  the  dewy  grass,  and  by  the  richly 
scented  hedges,  with  the  fair  moon  beaming  down  upon 
them  like  a  blessing  from  above,  and  the  "  tranquil, 
patient  stars"  looking  so  calm  and  holy  from  their  blue 
home. 

"  You  must  stop  a  moment,  and  see  good  Nannie  !" 
said  Mary,  as  she  paused  at  the  cottage  door ;  "  she  will 
be  so  rejoiced  at  your  return."  She  ran  in,  while  Lin- 
coln stood  in  the  background;  "Nannie!  Nannie  !"  she 
called,  "some  one  wishes  to  see  you."  Nannie  hurried 
forward. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  who  is  it.  Miss  Mary  ?  Lord  preserve  us! 
Is  it  his  ghost  ?  Master  Harry,  come  back  alive  from  the 
wars !  I  never  expected  to  live  to  see  this,  I  am  sure  !" 
She  warmly  grasped  the  kindly  extended  hand  of  the 
young  captain,  and  blessed  him  over  and  over  again,  for 
coming  back  alive  from  the  wars.  Mary  stood  by,  with 
swimming  eye  and  joyful  heart — a  slight  noise  causes 
them  to  turn  round    tlu-ir   heads — a   door   ajar   is  gently 


HARRYLINCOLN.  29 

moved,  and  a  demure -looking  country  lassie  looks  quickly 
in,  and  then  withdraws  her  head. 

"Who  is  there  ?"  said  Lincoln. 

"  Only  me,  captain  ;  Bessie  Grey.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
might  tell  me  something  of  John  Duncan — his  poor  father 
wants  to  know  if  he  is  ahve  and  well." 

"  Bessie  Grey  !  alas,  poor  Bessie  Grey  !  come  to  me  !" 
and  he  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  kindly  placed  her  on 
the  sofa  beside  him.  "  Bessie  Grey  !  do  you  love  John 
Duncan  very  dearly  ?" 

"  Dearer  than  all  the  world  beside,  sir  !"  quickly  an- 
swered Bessie,  a  blush  overspreading  her  fair  round 
cheek. 

"  Would  you  do  everything  that  you  thought  Duncan 
would  wish  you  to  do,  whether  he  were  absent  or  present  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;"  said  she,  astonished  ;  "  I  would  lay  down 
my  life  for  him  !"  She  started — her  eye  met  that  of  Lin- 
coln— she  seemed  to  half  guess  its  expression.  "  What 
is  it,  sir  ?  has  he  not  returned  with  you  ?  will  I  not  see 
him  ?     0  !  what  is  it,  sir  ?" 

"  Bessie  !  I  must  not  keep  you  in  this  state  of  suspense 
any  longer.  Yet  how  can  you  bear  it  ?  Duncan  is  no 
more.  You  never  will  see  him  again  in  this  life ;  but  if 
you  love  him" — 

A  wild  shriek  rent  the  air.  "  Dead  !  John  Duncan 
dead  !  Oh,  God  in  heaven  !  is  it  so  ?  is  he  dead  ?  No, 
no,  sir — don't  say  that !''  and  poor  Bessie  fell  back  on  the 
sofa  in  a  state  of  utter  lifelessness.  Cordials  were  given 
her,  and  she  revived  ;  but  revived  to  such  a  sense  of  utter 
woe  and  anguish,  the  siffht  of  her  would  melt  the  hardest 
heart.  She  was  borne  up  stairs,  and  placed  in  bed ;  a 
violent  fever  set  in,  and  for  weeks  her  hfe  was  despaired 
of;  but  her  constitution  was  vigorous,  and  at  length  she 


i30  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

I 

rallied  ;  and  such  an  altered  creature — so  frail — so  sad — 
so  unlike  the  Bessie  Grey  of  Duncan's  love,  that  one  could 
hardly  have  recognized  her. 

The  mornincr  after  Lincoln's  arrival,  he  went  to  carry 
the  sad  story  of  Duncan's  loss  to  his  aged  father.  The 
old  man,  like  the  patriarch,  "  lifted  up  his  voice  and 
wept."  His  only  earthly  hope  was  taken  from  him — his 
desire  to  live  was  removed  ;  and  though  for  poor  Bessie's 
sake  he  tried  to  rally,  it  was  a  most  painful  efibrt.  Lin- 
coln gave  into  their  keeping  the  few  articles  he  took  from 
poor  John's  dead  body  ;  and  though  the  sight  of  them 
seemed  to  renew  the  grief,  it  seemed  a  comfort  to  them  to 
have  aught  that  he  had  cherished  and  valued. 

The  rest  of  our  story  is  soon  told.     We  will  pass  over 

the  simple  bridal,  and  the  calm   delights  of  the  honey- 

I  moon  ;   and  go  forward  a  little,   and  take  one  glimpse  of 

our  charminir  friends  on  a  calm  evening  early  in  summer. 

Six  months  had  passed  by  since   the  vows   of  holy  matri- 

j  mony  had  been   uttered,   and   Harry   Lincoln    and   Mary 

I  Weston  had  been  made  man  and  wife.     The  cottage  door 

'  stands  open,   and  under  its  vine-covered  trellis  stand  the 

young  and  lovely  couple.     W^e  will  peep  into  the  cottage. 

What  an  air  of  refined  comfort,  even  elegance  do  we  see! — 

vases    of   fresh  flowers,    musical    instruments,  and  other 

tokens  of  cultivated  taste.     At  an  open  window   sits  the 

mother  of  Harry,    her  pleasant  face  turned  towards  the 

door  with  the  expression  of  deep  love  and  maternal  pride — 

her  eye  rests  upon  her  son  and  daughter.     Poor  Bessie 

Grey  sits   with   her  needle   in   her  hand,    but  her  whole 

appearance  betokens  a  sad,  sad  heart. 

"Just  one  year  to-day,"  said  Harry  Lincoln,  as  ho  drew 
his  Mary  towards  him,  and  looked  in  her  soft,  blue  eye, 
with    more  than  a  lover's   tenderness — "just    one   year 


HARRY     LINCOLN.  31 

to-day,  since  I  was  so  sorely  chased  by  those  poor  rebels 
in  our  provinces  across  the  water.  A  hard  chase  I  had  of 
it ;  had  they  come  upon  me,  I  fear  such  happy  hours  as 
these  never  would  have  been  enjoyed  by  you  and  me, 
my  Mary." 

"And  just  one  year  to-day,"  said  the  low,  sad  voice  of 
Bessie  Grey  ;  "just  a  year  since,  poor  Duncan  spoke  my 
name  for  the  last,  last  time  before  he  died  in  that  soli- 
tary place." 

"  Yes,  yes,  poor  Bessie ;  one  year  to-day  since  the  poor 
fellow,  commending  you  to  my  care,  and  himself  calmly 
yielding  to  the  hands  of  Him  who  made  him,  quietly 
breathed  his  last  in  that  lonesome  place.  A  year  to-day 
since  I  wrapped  my  cloak  about  him,  folded  his  pale 
hands  meekly  on  his  silent  bosom,  and  laid  him  within 
that  humble  grave  ;  a  year  to-day  since  that  gallant, 
honest,  and  trusting  Duncan  was  released  from  all  earthly 
sorrow  and  trouble ;  and  he  calmly  now  waits  the  hour 
when  the  Judge  of  quick  and  dead  shall  call  him  forth 
to  receive  that  crown  of  glory,  which  the  Lord  shall  have 
laid  up  for  him  in  heaven. 


THE  MOSS-ROSE  AND  CUPID. 


BY     THE      EDITRESS. 


A  DEEP  blushing  rose,  on  its  pillow  of  moss, 

Was  sent  as  a  token  of  pleasure ; 
And  the  maiden  in  ecstasy  gave  it  a  toss, 

To  wear  in  her  bosom,  a  treasure. 

When,  lo !  from  the  heart  of  the  rose  upward  sprung 
Young  Cupid,  with  arrows  and  quiver ; 

With  bow  nicely  aimed  at  the  mark,  and  all  strung, 
No  chance  of  escape  did  he  give  her. 

The  mischief  once  done,  he  was  off  in  a  trice. 
And  left  her  the  wound  to  sigh  over ; 

But  sagely  he  offered  this  wholesome  advice, 
"  Beware  of  the  gift  of  a  lover !" 


THE     BIAID    OF    THE     BERYL 


BY      MRS.       HOFLAND. 


One  bright  evening  in  September,  1587,  the  sun  shone 
cheeringly  on  many  a  gay  boat  and  fancy -formed  vessel, 
sporting  on  the  silver  bosom  of  the  Thames,  between   the 
regal  palace  of  Greenwich  and  the  cit}'  of  London ;  but 
one  boat  shot  forward  before  all  the  rest,  as  if  impelled 
by  bolder  hands  or  more  buoyant  spirits.     The  owner  at- 
tracted the  admiration  of  all  eyes  as  he  glided  along,  and 
many  a  low  obeisance  or  friendly  recognition,  was  returned 
by  him  with  an  air  of  lofty  courtesy,  or  kindly  frankness, 
which  displayed  his  character  and  his  feelings.     He  was 
a  very  young  r#in,  with  a  handsome,  ingenuous  counte- 
nance, expressive  of  joyous  con6dence  and  conscious  power. 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  lustrous,  his  foi'ehead  high    and 
polished,    his    mouth  small,    but    symmetrically   formed. 
His  beard  at  this  period  was  light  and  curling,  contrasting 
with  his  hair,  which  was  of  a  dark  brown.      His  figure,  tall 
and  elegant  in  its  proportions,  was  attired  in  the  height 
of  the  reigning  mode,  which  was  alike  splendid  and  be- 
cominnf.     He  wore  a  white  satin  doublet,  embroidered   in 
stripes  of  the  same  color,  intermingled  with  costly  pearls ; 
the  sleeves  were  made  extremely  large  about  the  shoul- 
ders, and  an  answering  appearance  of  fullness  was  j^^iven 
about  the  hips,   in  the  lower  part  of  his  clothing,  which 
was  in  texture  and  ornament  the  same  as  the  upper,   and 
3 


34  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

from  the  middle  of  the  thigh  to  the  ankle  fitted  closelj', 
and  displayed  his  finely  proportioned  limbs  to  great  ad- 
vantage. White  shoes,  with  Inrge  roses,  and  a  small 
crimson  velvet  cap,  with  three  diooping  white  feathers, 
placed  on  one  side  of  his  head,  completed  his  clothing. 
His  hands  were  embellished  by  rings ;  the  left  was  cov- 
ered by  an  embroidered  glove ;  the  right  was  employed 
in  caressing  a  greyhound,  so  beautiful  as  to  divide  atten- 
tion with  his  master,  who  lay  in  a  reclining  position  on  a 
Crimson  cloak  of  Genoa  velvet,  under  an  awning  of  blue 
damask.  Six  rowers  in  gay  liveries  completed  the  spec- 
tacle presented  by  this  gallant  young  nobleman,  to  the 
floatino;  world  around  him. 

By  degrees  all  were  left  behind  him  ;  but,  as  the  shad- 
ows of  evening  deepened,  his  attention  was  drawn  to  one 
small  bark  which  had  lately  followed  in  his  wake.  It  was 
rowed  by  a  young  boy  of  foreign  aspect,  and  contained 
only  one  other  person,  who  was  so  entirely  enveloped  in  a 
larcre  garment  of  a  dusky  hue,  that  the  sex  of  the  wearer 
could  not  be  known.  It  appeared  to  nre  man  of  rank 
that  these  persons  were  gipsies,  a  race  much  proscribed  at 
that  time ;  and  he  apprehended  that  they  souglit  protec- 
tion from  the  watermen,  amongst  whom  they  were  thread- 
ing their  way  with  gieat  skill,  by  keeping  in  his  vicinity. 
His  attendants  had  the  same  conception  of  the  case,  with- 
out the  same  will  to  befriend  the  despised  foreigners;  and 
when,  on  arriving  near  the  Temple-stairs,  the  poor  boy 
tried  to  land,  in  the  spirit  of  malicious  sport,  they  so  ma- 
noeuvred their  own  vessel,  that  the  principal  occupant  of 
the  bo;it  was  thrown  by  a  violent  jerk  into  the  water,  in 
the  direction  of  the  pleasure  barge. 

To  seize  the  floating  vestment  with  a  strong  and  agile 
hand,  and  to  rescue  the  slight  form  which  it  enfolded,  was 


THE      MAID     OF     THE      BERYL.  35 

the  work  of  a  moment  with  our  favorite  of  nature  and  for- 
tune ;  and  as  his  loud  reproof  showed  the  necessity  of  re- 
paration to  his  followers,  all  were  soon  placed  in  safety  on 
the  steps.  It  now  appeared  that  the  person  still  ti-em- 
bling  in  the  preserver's  arms  was  a  woman,  and  the  ap- 
proach of  a  flambeau,  in  the  hand  of  a  man  who  was  light- 
ing a  party  to  their  boat,  showed  that  she  was  youno-  and 
beautiful,  and  of  singular  and  striking  appearance. 

Like  the  inhabitants  of  Africa  in  general,  she  had  been 
covered  with  an  haick  or  wrapper ;  but  this  being  now 
dropped,  she  appeared  dressed  in  a  caftan  or  jacket, 
richly  embroidered,  drawers  and  petticoat  of  white  camlet, 
and  a  head-dress  of  gavize  handkerchiefs,  becomingly  inter- 
mincrled  with  her  own  dark  braided  hair.  Her  neck  was 
encircled  by  links  of  gold.  She  had  bracelets  and  armlets 
of  the  same  precious,  metal  enriched  with  emeralds  ;  but 
these  articles  of  value,  however  unexpected,  wer«  forgot- 
ten the  moment  she  began  to  speak ;  for  her  coral  lips 
and  pearly  teeth,  aiding  the  effect  of  her  large  dark  eyes, 
seemed  to  throw  a  lustre  on  her  countenance,  and  to  pro- 
duce an  impression  of  beauty  new  even  to  one  wont  to  dis- 
tinguish and  to  admire  it.  The  melody  of  her  low  and 
tremblinof  voice,  her  solicitude  to  regain  the  haick  that 
would  shroud  her  beauties,  and  her  desire  to  be  left  alone 
with  the  boy,  whom  she  called  her  brother,  proved  the  re- 
tirement of  her  habits  and  the  modesty  of  her  nature,  and 
added  to  the  curiosity  which  her  appearance  was  calcu- 
lated to  excite.  As  pity  for  her  distressing  situation 
superseded  even  his  desire  to  see  more  of  her,  the  young 
nobleman  hastened  to  engage  the  bearer  of  the  flambeau  to 
see  her  safely  home.  Reassured  by  his  unobtrusive  afik- 
bility,  and  the  near  prospect  of  being  suff"ered  to  depart, 
she  ventured   to  expi'ess  her  gratitude  warmly,  and  even 


30  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

eloquent!)',  though  in  somewhat  imperfect  langunge,  and 
had  once  half  drawn  a  ring  from  her  finger,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  beseeching  him  to  wear  it  in  memory  of  his 
own  good  deed,  when  she  suddenly  replaced  it,  saying, 
"  No ;  if  I  read  the  heavens  aright,  rings  are  to  you  un- 
fortunate, whether  given  or  received." 

"  So  then,"  said  he  internally,  "  this  girl  is  a  gipsy  for- 
tune-teller after  all !"  and,  half  ashamed  of  his  adventure, 
he  jumped  hastily  into  the  boat,  and,  by  ordering  it  to 
Essex  House,  informed  the  few  bystanders  that  they  had 
enjoyed  the  good  fortune  of  beholding  the  young  earl  of 
that  title,  who  had  been  lately  introduced  at  court  by  the 
all-powerful  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  on  whom  the  queen 
had  already  bestowed  marks  of  hei-  distingui.^hed  appro- 
bation. 

Eager  as  the  African  girl  had  hitherto  been  to  depart, 
yet  she  now  lingered,  as  if  to  catch  the  last  sound  of  his 
oars,  and  ascertain  the  painful  truth  that  he  was  indeed 
removed  beyond  observation  From  this  eventful  night 
the  lovely  stranger  received  an  impression  dangerous  to 
all  her  sex,  but  to  her  decidedly  unhappy  ;  since  it  com- 
municated hopeless  and  intense  interest  in  one  so  com- 
pletely divided  fiom  her  by  superior  station,  country, 
and  faith. 

Yet  was  she  not  forgotten.  Many  a  time  did  the 
bright  eyes  of  the  admired  and  flattered  Essex  dart  anx- 
ious glances  through  the  dense  crowds  that  pressed  near 
him,  as  he  slowly  rode  towards  the  palace,  or  walked  from 
his  garden  in  the  Strand  to  take  the  water,  in  tlie  hope  of 
beholding  her  again.  Constantly  disappointed,  he  at 
length  questioned  Sir  Horatio  Pallavioini  on  the  s^ibject,  as 
being  a  person  likely  to  be  acquainted  with  all  resident 
fon'igniirs.      He  was  an  Ttnlian  niiMchiiMt  of  great  repute, 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     BERYL.  37 

in  the  queen's  service,  residing  in  Lollesworth,  a  part  of 
the  Bishop  of  London's  fields,  towards  which  the  stranger 
had  directed  her  steps. 

"  Your  lordship  must  inquire  after  Arsinoe  el  Abra,  the 
Maid  of  the  Beryl;  yet  surely  one  so  favored  by  fortune 
has  no  temptation  to  task  her  skill?" 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  one  so  young  as  this 
Arsinoe  practises  witchcraft,  or  pretends  to  the  learning  of 
an  asti'oloorer  ?" 

o 

"  No  ;  she  is  distinct  from  both,  and  equally  so  from  the 
tribe  of  dissolute  and  idle  vagabonds  which  have  lately  in- 
fested this  country.  Arsinoe  is  highly,  and  even  royally, 
descended,  and  from  her  ancestors  inherits  a  knowledge  in 
occult  science  distinct  from  that  of  the  wizard,  termed 
sorcery  or  magic,  and  which  professes  to  receive  aid  from 
good  spirits  alone.  Of  these  curious  and  forbidden  mat- 
ters I  know  nothing,  but  that  this  young  creature  has  rare 
talents,  and  great  virtues  also,  I  can  testify ;  she  was  an 
excellent  daughter  to  the  parents  she  has  lost,  is  of 
a  noble  nature,  and  endowed  with  equal  modesty  and 
dignity." 

A  sudden  call  to  attend  the  Earl  of  Leicester  to  Hol- 
land, wheie,  at  the  battle  of  Zutphen,  the  favorite  gave 
signal  proof  of  his  valor,  and  witnessed  the  death  of  the 
brave  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  suspended  his  inquiries  after 
Arsinoe ;  but  when  he  returned  a  knight  banneret,  and 
was  received  with  more  than  usual  honors  by  the  queen, 
his  desire  to  see  the  eastern  maid,  not  only  for  herself  but 
for  her  art,  revived,  and,  by  the  assistance  of  Sir  Horatio, 
the  interview  was  effected. 

The  visit  was  made  with  that  secrecy  which  belongs  to 
mysterious  and  forbidden  things.  Under  the  sole  guidance 
of  Akra  el  Abra,  the  brother  of  Arsinoe,  and  wrapped 


38  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

in  a  laigc  cloak,  the  earl  set  out  at  midnight,  unknown  to 
bis  household,  and  reached  in  due  time  a  retired  house, 
situate  among  dilapidated  buildings,  and  exhibiting  in  its 
appearance  much  that  might  excite  suspicion.  After 
opening  the  outer  door  his  guide  proceeded  up  so  many 
stairs,  that  at  length  the  earl  recollected  that  he  had  been 
too  successful  not  to  have  made  enemies,  and  it  was 
possible  that  he  might  be  throwing  himself  into  their 
power. 

Just  as  he'  was  instinctively  grasping  his  sword,  the 
guide  stopped,  and  desired  him  to  place  that  weapon,  to- 
gether with  his  cloak,  cap,  and  shoes,  in  his  hands. 

Essex  hesitated ;  but  being  always  more  valiant  than 
prudent,  in  another  moment  he  complied  with  the  request. 
The  door  of  a  room,  evidently  devoted  to  the  pursuits  of 
Arsinoe,  was  then  unlocked,  and  he  entered  a  place  well 
calculated  to  make  a  strong  impression  on  the  mind  of  a 
young  and  ardent  inquirer  into  the  secrets  of  futurity. 

The  room  in  question  was  an  exact  square,  with  a  dome 
roof.  The  walls  were  hung  with  crimson  cloth,  on  which 
numerous  hieroglyphics  were  curiously  wrought ;  and  the 
floor  was  covered  with  that  rare  article  of  oriental  luxury, 
a  Persian  carpet.  In  the  centre  of  the  dome  was  a  sky- 
light, from  which  was  suspended  a  beryl  of  extraordinary 
size  and  brilliance,  and  of  the  foi-m  of  a  globe.  The  rays 
of  the  full  moon  fell  directly  on  this  precious  stone,  from 
which  they  were  so  reflected  as  to  illumine  the  room,  which 
was  small,  and  completely  surrounded  by  a  divan,  or  sofa, 
except  at  the  east  end,  which  was  occupied  by  a  white 
marble  sarcophagus,  tilled  with  pure  water,  on  each 
side  of  which  stood  beautiful  statues  of  the  Egyptian 
Isis. 

Essex  had  scarcely  had  time  to  notice  the  objects  in 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     BERYL.  39 

this  singular  boudoir,  when  Arsinoe  entered,  bearing  in 
her  hands  a  refulgent  lamp.  She  was  splendidly  attired 
in  the  costume  of  her  country,  and  exhibited  in  her  car- 
riage the  majesty  of  a  princess  ;  while  her  graceful  form, 
i-egular  features,  and  finely-tinted  complexion,  confirmed 
the  previous  impression  of  her  extraordinary  beauty.  Her 
countenance  mingled  with  the  lofty  expression  conferred 
by  conscious  power,  anxiety,  and  solemnity  ;  and  since  the 
earl  did  not  advert  to  their  former  meeting,  but  merely  an- 
nounced himself  as  the  friend  of  the  Italian  merchant, 
Arsinoe  received  him  as  such  by  a  silent  movement. 
When  he  proceeded  to  inquire  if  her  prophetic  powers 
were  connected  with  the  precious  stone  before  him,  she  re- 
plied :  "  Yes  ;  it  is  in  the  beryl  that  I  must  read  so  much 
of  your  future  destiny  as  my  instructors  see  it  meet  to  re- 
veal. He  who  has  lifted  his  hand  against  his  fellow  man 
cannot  distinctly  descry  those  images  which  will  shortly 
people  the  clear  expanse  before  us." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  the  earl,  seating  himself  on  the  divan, 
yet  looking  towards  the  beryl,  beneath  which  Arsinoe 
placed  the  brilliant  lamp,  uttering  at  the  same  time  a  kind 
of  incantation  in  her  own  tongue.  In  a  few  moments  the 
beryl,  originally  of  the  size  of  a  small  orange,  appeared  to 
expand  considerably ;  dark  lines  divided  it  into  four  dis- 
tinct parts,  and  numerous  moving  forms  were  delineated 
on  the  surface  of  each  portion,  in  a  manner  equally  beau- 
tiful, miraculous,  and  awful. 

Arsinoe  knelt  down,  and  gazed  on  the  eastern  side.  "  I 
see,"  said  she,  "  the  queen  of  these  realms  riding  through 
a  camp,  prepared  for  battle,  and  you,  as  the  master  of  the 
horse,  accompanying  her.  The  pageant  changes  ;  j^ou  re- 
turn home  from  foreign  conquest,  and  your  sovereign  now 
receives  you  rather  with  the  tenderness  of  woman  than  the 


40  THEMOSS-KOSE. 

condescension  of  majesty.     You  kneel  at  her  feet,  and  rise 
Earl  Marshal  of  England." 

At  tliese  words  Essex  sprang  from  his  seat,  as  if  to  con- 
vince himself  of  the  fact ;  but  the  eastern  maid  waved  her 
hand  majestically,  as  one  born  to  be  obeyed,  and  placed 
herself  at  the  southern  side  of  the  beryl,  as  soon  as  he  was 
re-seated  and  silent. 

"  I  see  you  again  kneeling,  but  it  is  by  the  side  of  a 
young  and  lovely  woman.  Her  shape  is  fine,  her  eyes 
dark,  her  complexion  of  northern  whiteness ;  but  there  is 
an  expression  of  melancholy  in  her  countenance.  She  is 
the  widow  of  one  whose  name  will  go  down  to  posterity 
with  honors  even  brighter  than  yours.  Ah  !  she  listens  to 
your  vows  ;  she  receives  from  you  a  ring ;  that  ring  I  saw 
in  the  heavens ;  it  is  the  harbinger  of  sorrow  to  the  giver 
and  receiver." 

"Your  spirits  play  you  false,  fair  damsel,  Robert  Deve- 
reux  is  as  little  likely  to  wed  a  young  widow  as  an  ancient 
maiden." 

"  It  is  written  here ;  she  is  your  wedded  wife  now,  and 
will  be  anothei''s  in  days  to  come." 

A  sigh  of  unutterable  anguish  followed  this  declaration, 
and  the  fair  sorceress,  changing  her  situation,  gazed 
eagerly  on  the  eastern  side  in  silence,  until  her  auditor  in- 
quired what  she  beheld. 

"  I  see  battle  and  victory,  honor  and  anger ;  the  pre- 
sumption of  a  favored  subject,  the  weakness  of  an  aged 
queen.  Again  the  guerdon  of  valor  is  bestowed  on  you, 
but  enemies  are  around,  and  the  whispers  of  calumny  assail 
you.  The  sovereign  gives  a  ring  as  the  pledge  of  safety, 
but  trust  not  to  it.  Now  I  behold  you  aoain  at  the  head  of 
armies,  but  your  look  is  dispirited,  and  rather  befitting  an 
e.vile  than  a  general." 


THE     MAID     OF     THEBERYL.  41 

•'  That  is  not  the  expression  I  should  choose  to  wear,  or 
can  brook  to  consider.  Try  the  fourth  part  of  your  magic 
globe,  my  sybil." 

Arsinoe  fulfilled  the  wishes  of  her  impatient  guest.  She 
bent  her  dark  eyes  on  the  northern  quarter  of  the  beryl 
with  penetrating  gaze,  but  in  a  moment  recoiled,  then 
looked  again,  and  shrieked  aloud.  The  earl  rose  in  alarm, 
and  approached  close  to  the  beryl ;  but  when  he  reached 
it  the  forms  became  indistinct,  the  supernatural  expansion 
was  withdrawn,  and  the  precious  stone  remained  in  its 
natural  state.  Casting  his  eyes  around  in  disappointment 
not  unmixed  with  terror,  he  perceived  Arsinoe,  pale  and 
senseless,  on  the  floor,  her  fine  features  bearing  the  impres- 
sion of  that  agony  which  had  given  her  temporary  death. 

"  Alas !  why  did  I  come  hither  ?  why  did  I  dare,  like 
Saul,  to  seek  the  knowledge  which  heaven  has  hidden  ?" 
were  the  first  exclamations  of  the  earl,  whose  religious 
principles,  deeply  implanted  by  a  pious  father,  now  rushed 
upon  his  mind,  and,  while  they  condemned  him  for  the  sin 
of  seeking  forbidden  knowledge,  prohibited  further  in- 
quiry as  to  the  object  which  had  so  severely  affected  Ar- 
sinoe. Pity  for  her  state,  indeed,  soon  obliterated  every 
other  impression;  he  bore  her  to  the  sarcophagus,  sprink- 
led her  temples  and  hands  with  the  water,  and,  as  life  re- 
turned, soothed  her  by  gentle  words  indicative  of  pity  to- 
wards herself,  unmixed  with  those  inquiries  which  it  would 
have  embarrassed  her  to  answer. 

Casting  upon  him  a  look  of  animated  gratitude,  which 
was  followed  by  one  of  the  sincerest  compassion,  Arsinoe 
rose,  and  with  great  solemnity  loosed  the  golden  chain  by 
which  the  beryl  was  suspended,  and  suffered  it  to  drop  on 
the  floor,  saying  at  the  same  time,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emo- 
tion, "I  resign  thee  forever." 
3* 


42  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Sincerely  did  the  earl,  as  a  Christian,  rejoice  in  a  reso- 
lution wliich  he  considered  to  be  for  the  "  soul's  health" 
of  one  in  whose  well-being  he  felt  deeply  interested ;  but, 
in  conoratulating  so  young  and  fair  a  woman,  it  is  but  too 
possible  that  the  ardor  and  tenderness  of  his  nature  might 
express  too  strongly  the  feelings  of  the  moment.  It  is  at 
least  certain  that,  fearful  of  the  power  of  Arsinoe  or  of  his 
own  susceptibility,  the  earl  hastily  fled  from  her  presence, 
and  endeavored  in  the  career  of  ambition  and  the  pleasures 
of  literature  to  banish  from  his  mind  both  the  predictions 
of  the  beryl  and  the  charms  of  its  possessor. 

The  history  of  this  nobleman,  his  rapid  rise  to  almost 
sovereign  power,  his  secret  marriage  with  the  widow  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  and  his  unfortunate  end,  are  known  to 
every  one.  It  is  probable  that  when  he  received  from  the 
queen  that  ring  which  the  cruelty  of  his  enemies  eventu- 
ally rendered  useless  to  him,  he  thought  of  the  adventure 
of  this  memorable  night ;  but  no  part  of  his  story  induces 
us  to  conclude  that  it  dwelt  upon  his  mind.  As  a  warrior 
or  a  statesman,  he  was  too  perpetually  employed  to  look 
back  on  that  action,  which  he  probably  considered  as  the 
frolic  of  a  boy,  or  the  sin  of  a  legislator. 

Far  different  were  the  feelings  of  Arsinoe  ;  her  occupa- 
tion was  gone,  and  with  it  that  sense  of  power,  wliich, 
however  blamably,  had  allied  her  to  higher  natures  ;  wliile 
she  had  drunk  more  deeply  of  that  unliappy  passion  which, 
though  hopeless,  was  incurable.  To  wean  her  from  that 
unknown  sorrow,  which  destroyed  her  faculties  and  threat- 
ened her  life,  her  young  brother,  now  advancing  to  man- 
hood, prevailed  upon  her  to  travel,  and,  under  the  aus- 
pices of  Sir  Petei-  Pallavicini,  She  wandered  for  years  in 
Italy  and  Sicily.  The  mildness  of  the  climate  counteracted 
her  apparent  disease,  but  neither  that  nor  tlie  beauties  of 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     BERYL.  43 

the  country  could  restore  her  spirits.     The  only  rehef  that 
her  melancholy  admitted  arose  fi"om  the  enjoyment  which 
music  afforded  her,  and  which  she  constantly  sought  at 
the   hours  of  worship   in   the   august   ceremonies  of  the 
Catholic   churches.       Everywhere     her    finished   beauty, 
rendered  more  touching  by  the  gentle  melancholy  that 
pervaded  her  classic  features,  awoke  admiration,  which  was 
confirmed  by  the  melting  softness  of  her  voice ;  but  the 
language  of  flattery  fell  on  her  ear  as  that  of  the  dead, 
I  and,  save  in  giatitude  towards  her  generous  and  devoted 
1  brother,  no  smile  parted  the  coral  lips  of  Arsinoe,  and  no 
j  word  of  hope  or  cheerfulness  interrupted  the  pensive  sad- 
ness of  her  meek  dejection. 

In  the  winter  of  1600-1,  circumstances  occurred  which 
rendered  it  desirable  that  Akra  should  visit  Eng-land,  and 
Arsinoe  made  no  objection  to  accompany  him,  as  the  sea- 
son was  favorable.    They  landed  below  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don, and,  observing  many  persons  entering  the  principal 
gate  of  that  fortress,  as  they  believed  for  the  purpose  of 
{  worship — for  it  was  Ash-Wednesday — they  entered  with 
'  them,  the  brother  being  desirous  of  seeing  a  person  resi- 
dent there,  whilst  his  sister  should  seek  her  wonted  solace 
in  the   church.     They  had,  however,  proceeded  only  a 
short  distance  within  the  enclosed  space,  when  they  per- 
ceived with  extreme  horror,  that  a  scaffold   was  erected, 
on  which  was  a  block,   and  by  its  side  two  executioners 
I  were  already  stationed. 

I       Arsinoe  gazed  wildly  around.     The  black  object  before 
j  her,  the  dark  towers  in  the  background,  the  stern  faces  of 
the  headsmen,  and  the  appalled  countenances  of  the  spec- 
tators, were  all  recognized,  and  she  looked  as  if  bound  by 
.  fascination  to  the  objects  she  loathed  and  dreaded.     In  an- 
other moment,  and  the  whole  of  that  terrific  vision  was  re- 


44  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

alized.  A  noble  looking  man,  in  the  very  piime  of  life, 
stepped  upon  the  scaffold.  He  was  arrayed  in  a  diess  of 
black  satin,  which  showed  to  advantage  the  singular  grace 
and  dignity  of  his  person.  His  beard  was  long  and  full, 
his  face  pale  but  composed,  and  his  dark  eyes,  though 
somewhat  robbed  of  their  youthful  lustre,  told  the  trem- 
bling Arsinoe,  in  their  first  penetrating  glances,  that  he, 
the  worshipped  idol  of  her  young  heart,  stood  before  her 
a  sufferer  and  a  victim. 

It  was  believed  by  all  around,  until  the  last  moment, 
that  the  mercy  of  the  queen  would  interpose  to  snatch 
from  destruction  one  so  dear  and  so  distinguished.  Whis- 
perings to  that  effect  mingled  with  the  audible  sighs  of 
those  present.  Arsinoe  heard  them  not ;  with  one  con- 
vulsive sob  she  sank  fainting  on  the  ground,  unheeded  at 
this  awful  period  by  all  but  her  brothei-.  When  life  re- 
turned— when  in  eagerness  and  tei  ror  she  again  looked  to- 
wards the  scaffold,  the  newly  dissevered  head,  bleeding 
and  ghastly,  met  her  view,  and  again  she  sank  senseless  to 
the  earth. 

The  sorrows  of  Arsinoe  now  drew  rapidly  to  a  close. 
She  had  loved  as  woman  only  loves,  in  silent  hopelessness 
and  unabated  admiration,  that  object  which  imagination, 
not  less  than  memory,  endued  with  its  power  to  chaim. 
Her  brother  knew  not,  till  this  terrific  chcumst.incc  re- 
vealed the  mystery,  the  cause  of  the  deep-seated  sorrow 
which  had  desolated  the  best  years  of  her  life,  and  sub- 
dued the  energies  of  her  capacious  mind ;  but  he  found 
himself  unable,  as  before,  to  alleviate  the  sorrow  which  he 
so  sincerely  pitied. 

Happily  the  extreme  anxiety  evinced  by  Arsinoe  to  learn 
every  word  uttered  by  the  unfortunate  Essex  in  his  la^t 
moments,  and  which  she  besougbt  her  brother  to  lepeat 


THE     MAID     or     THE     BERYL.  45 

daily,  led  her  to  seek  consolation  from  that  religion  -which 
sustained  him  in  that  awful  hour,  and  had  influenced  him 
during  life.  In  Italy  she  had  attended  Christian  worship 
to  sooth  and  divert  her  mind,  but  she  now  sought  its  sa- 
cred truths  as  the  consolation  of  her  heart ;  and  under  its 
divine  influence,  hopes  of  a  glorious  and  exalted  nature 
illuminated  the  death-bed  of  the  Maid  of  the  Beryl. 


THE     WIND. 


BY       MISS     C.      E.      ROBERTS. 


The  day  is  clear  and  bright — and  clouds 

Of  fleecy  white  arise 

Upon  the  perfect  skies, 
Mere   playthings  for  the  frolic  wind, 
Who,  for  wild  sport  inclined. 

Out  swiftly  hies  ! 

The  dry  leaves  sure  are  sport  enough, 
For  his  strange,  fitful  play ; 
He  scattereth  them  away, 

And  whirls  them,  see — all  round  and  round 

Upon  the  sober  ground, 
The  livelong  day. 

It  makes  me  smile  to  watch  the  wind — 

To-da)'  he  seems  to  be 

Full  of  wild  trickery  ; 
Then  sings  himself  to  sleep,  and  you 
Would  think  him  dreaming  too, 

So  still  he'll  be. 

Then  of  a  sudden,  up  he  starts, 
And  like  a  gleesome  child, 
With  fun  and  frolic  wild  ; 


THE     WIND. 


47 


He'll  play  most  antic  tricks,  and  then 
Most  still  he'll  be  again, 
And  very  mild. 

He  bends  the  tree-tops  to  and  fro, 
Then  mounteth  to  the  sky, 
To  chase  the  clouds  that  lie 

Like  sleeping  doves  in  the  far  west; 

He  wakes  them  from  their  rest. 
And  bids  them  fly. 

Then  far  away  he  hies,  to  rouse 
The  placid  wave,  and  creep 
Over  the  tranquil  deep. 
Unquiet  wind  !  I  prithee  rest 
Upon  the  billow's  gentle  breast. 
And  sweetly  sleep. 

I  hardly  thought  to  write  a  verse 

On  such  a  fitful  theme, 

But  it  doth  ever  seem 
That  nature  bringeth  to  my  view 
Some  subject  ever  new, 

For  ray  day-dream. 


OUR    MOSS-ROSE 


BY      THE      EDITRESS 


CHAPTER      I. 

"  Surely  you  are  not  in  earnest,  Lauia  !"  said  her  fiiend, 
Ella  Morris,  as  both  were  seated  upon  a  little  mound,  in 
the  thick  s^hade  of  a  maple  grove,  towards  the  close  of  u  fine 
afternoon  in  June. 

"  I  assure  you,  I  was  never  more  so,  Ella;  and  I  re- 
peat it — 1  will  never  marry  a  man  who  does  not  love  flow- 
ers." 

"  Not  if  he  were    possessed  of  excellent  qualities,  and 

you  loved  him  ?" 

"  If  he  were  indeed  excellent,"  answered  Laura,  "his 
soul  would  appreciate  the  beautiful  in  Nature  ;  he  would 
see  the  hand  of  a  Creator  in  every  little  flower  that  sheds 
its  fragrance ;  in  every  tiny  bell  that  bows  to  earth,  and 
every  soft,  meek  eye  that  turns  to  heaven.* 

•'  I  too  love  flowers,"  said  Ella,  "  but  never  thought 
that  circumstance  would  influence  me  in  the  choice  of  a 
husband.  If  a  young  man  loved  me,  who  was  fine  look- 
ing, well  educated,  possessed  of  good  morals,  and  rich, 
I  do  not  think  I  should  refuse  him  because  he  did  not  love 
flowers." 

"  I  understand  your  meaning,"  said  Laura,  slightly 
coloring  ;  "  but  Walter  Lee,  splendid  as  he  is,  has  few  sym- 


',/ 


■'/■^    //?(^<  C^-/ic\i^'  ^ 


OUR     MOSS-ROSE 


49 


patliies  in  common  with  mine.  I  could  not  be  happy  as 
his  wife  ;  of  course  could  not  contribute  to  his  happi- 
ness. I  have  frankly  told  him  this  ;  and  I  doubt  not  his 
decision  of  character  will  aid  him  to  forget  me,  and  turn 
his  attentions  to  one  who  will  appreciate  his  worth.  He 
has  my  best  wishes." 

"  Well,  I  will  only  say,  I  hope,  Laura,  you  will  not  re- 
gret this  step.  But  what  think  you  of  our  new  acquaint- 
ance, Mr.  Elliston  ?" 

"  His  manner  is  agreeable,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  and  as  a 
physiognomist,  I  see  nothing  in  his  face  to  censure.  That 
he  has  a  highly  cultivated  mind  may  be  inferred  from  his 
conversation,  I  think.  I  have  heard  my  brother  mention 
him  with  great  pleasure." 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is.  I  observed  his  glances  were 
directed  to  you  last  evening  at  Coleman's,  to  the  exclusion 
of  other  gay  ladies.     I  wonder  if  he  loves  flowers  ?" 

"  Nonsense,  Ella ;  remember,  we  are  almost  strangei's." 
The  tint  which  mantled  her  cheek  deepened  as  she  ob- 
served the  approach  of  the  two  gentlemen  of  whom  they 
had  been  speaking.  Retreat  was  impossible,  even  had  it 
been  desired  ;  and  the  four  were  soon  absorbed  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  charming  view  before  them.  Fleecy 
clouds  of  silver  floating  leisurely  in  the  deep  blue  sky  ;  the 
bright  green  robe  of  earth,  as  yet  unsullied  by  the  hot 
breath  of  a  summer  sun ;  the  delicate  and  blushing  flow- 
ers, luxuriantly  blooming  in  their  mountain  homes ;  the 
luscious  strawberry,  with  its  crimson  pvilp  drooping  in 
clusters  among  the  rich  velvet  that  adorns  the  hillside 
and  valley ;  the  thick  foliage  of  the  forest  trees,  gently 
waving  in  the  breeze ;  and  the  sweet  melody  of  the  birds, 
who  find  a  secure  home  in  the  almost  impenetrable 
branches  ;  all  these  were  beheld  with  admiration.     To  add 


50  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

to  tire  beauty  of  the  landscape,  not  far  distant  a  majestic 
river  with  its  glassy  surface,  reflected  the  wliite  sails  and 
dark  bows  of  the  vessels,  as  they  glided  peacefully  on, 
bearing  wealth,  and  beauty,  and  fashion,  to  a  crowded 
mart. 

Who  would  not  enjoy  such  a  picture,  and  involuntarily 
turn  his  thouglits  from  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God  ? 
Such,  indeed,  was  the  effect  upon  the  minds  of  those  to 
whom  the  reader  has  just  been  introduced.  Even  the 
flowers,  stones,  and  pebbles  in  the  path  had  a  charm  ; 
and  Mr.  Elliston  improved  the  opportunity  to  speak  of 
the  unhmited  gratitude  due  to  the  great  Architect  from 
his  creatures.  "  When  looking  upon  such  a  scene,"  said 
he,  "  I  greatly  wonder  that  any  one  can  say,  '  there  is  no 
God.'  His  voice  may  be  heard  in  every  gentle  zephyr — 
His  handiwork  may  be  seen  in  every  object  that  meets 
the  eye.  Is  it  not  strange.  Miss  Fordham,  that  an  athe- 
ist can  exist  in  this  beautiful  world?" 

"  It  surely  is,  Mr.  EUiston,"  said  Laura ;  "  we  can 
hardly  suppose  any  one  serious,  or  capable  of  reflection, 
who  ascribes  everything  to  chance." 

"  Such  a  one  should  ask  himself,"  continued  he,  "  Can 
chance  produce  the  regularity  of  the  seasons  ?  Can 
chance  cause  this  lovely  Azalea  to  be  dressed  annually  in 
the  same  rose-colored  petals  ?  Can  chance  array  the 
flowers  of  a  peculiar  rose-tree  only,  with  a  delicate  cover- 
ing of  moss?" 

"  There  is,  indeed,  convincing  proof  of  a  Deity  in  every- 
thing we  see,  and  hear,  and  feel,"  said  Laura  ;  "  and  1 
hope  tlie  time  may  not  be  far  distant  when  all  will  be 
willing  to  admit,  what  must  be  the  inward  conviction  of 
the  heart,  that  there  is  an  overruling  Providence,  who  can 
lead  the  very  soul." 


OUR     MOSS-ROSE.  51 

"  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  individuals  exert  themselves 
so  little  for  the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large.  Did  it  ever 
occur  to  you,  Miss  Fordham,  that  extreme  diffidence  might 
prevent  much  moral  good  to  community  ?  We  not  un- 
frequently  meet  with  those  who  think  themselves  of  so 
little  consequence,  as  to  suppose  that  their  example  and 
exertions  would  have  no  influence  upon  those  around 
them — who  fear  to  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  con- 
science— who  feel  that  each  one  is  comparatively  but  a 
drop  of  water  to  the  ocean — and  yet,  were  every  person 
to  think  thus  of  himself,  where  would  be  the  result  ? 
Where  the  ocean,  consisting  of  innumerable  drops  ?  We 
know  that  in  machinery,  wheel  acts  upon  wheel,  till  a 
mighty  force  is  produced ;  so  mankind  act  upon  each 
other,  whether  the  tendency  be  good  or  evil.  How  im- 
portant, then,  that  the  young  mind  be  directed  aright ! — 
that"— 

"EUiston!"  said  Fordham,  who  with  Ella  had  wan- 
dered a  short  distance,  and  was  now  approaching,  "  ElUs- 
ton !  here  is  a  fine  specimen  of  flesh-colored  feldspar, 
which  Ella  found  among  these  stones  ;  besides  some  crys- 
tals of  quartz  which  are  worth  preserving.  How  glori- 
ously they  reflect  the  sunHght !  but  look !  the  sun  is 
nearly  down,  or  rather  we  can  see  his  bright  face  peeping 
between  yonder  trees  as  he  is  sinking  behind  the  hill. 
Shall  we  walk  on,  and  be  in  time  to  take  a  turn  in  the 
garden  before  dark,  and  talk  over  our  college  hours  ?" 

"  As   you   please,"  said  Mr.   Elliston ;  and  they  were  \ 
soon   among    the   rare    exotics   which    Laura's   care  had 
reared. 

"  Ah  !  here  are  my  favorites,"  said  he,  as  he  paused  ; 
among  the  Eglantine,  Damask,  and  White  Roses.  "  To  j 
me  no  garden  flowers  can  surpass   this  faniily,  of  which   ' 


52  T  H  E     M  O  S  S  -  R  O  S  E  . 

the  Moss  Rose  is  queen  ;  thougli  it  does  not  expand  its 
rich  petals  till  some  weeks  later,  I  think.  What  say  you, 
ladies  ?  Is  my  taste  correct  in  a  love  of  old-fashioned 
flowers  ?" 

"  I  believe  we  are  ready  to  admit  that  a  Rose  is  more 
delicately  beautiful  and  fragrant,  more  pleasing  than  any 
other  flower,"  said  Ella ;  "  the  little  modest  Violet,  however, 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten." 

"  J  should  have  said.  Miss  Morris,  that  the  lowly  Vio- 
let, perhaps,  ranks  next  the  Rose  in  loveliness — but  here 
is  such  a  variety  to  look  at  and  admire,  that  I  may  be  in 
danger  of  passing  a  wrong  judgment  amidst  so  much 
beauty." 

"  My  attention  and  love  are  divided  among  my  flowers, 
and  I  scarcely  dare  acknowledge  to  myself  a  preference," 
said  Laura. 

"  Ellistou !"  said  Horace,  gaily,  "  I  have  a  secret  for 
you.  My  sister  is  passionately  fond  of  flowers,  as  you 
may  perceive  by  the  care  she  has  bestowed  upon  them, 
and  the  Moss  Rose  is  her  pet  of  pets.  Ella  and  I  some- 
times call  her  '  our  Moss  Rose.'  "  And  taking  an  album 
from  the  summer-house,  he  added,  "  Here  are  your  senti- 
ments precisely,  Laura !"  and  he  read  aloud — 

"  Tbe  Angel  of  tlie  flowers,  one  day, 
Beneath  a  Rose-tree  sleeping  lay ; 
That  angel  to  whose  charge  'tis  given 
To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  from  heaven. 
Awaking  from  its  light  repose, 
The  Angel  whispered  to  the  Rose — 
'Oh,  fairest  object  of  my  care  ! 
Still  fairest  found  where  all  is  fair, 
For  the  sweet  shade  thou'st  given  to  me, 
Ask  what  thou  wilt — 'tis  granted  thee.' 


OURMOSS-ROSE.  ^3 

"  '  Then,'  said  the  Rose,  with  deepened  glow, 
'On  rae  another  grace  bestow.' 
The  spirit  paused  in  anxious  thought — 
What  grace  was  there  this  flower  had  not  ? 
'Twas  but  a  moment — o'er  the  Rose, 
A  veil  of  Moss  the  A.ngel  throws. 
And,  clothed  in  Nature's  simplest  weed. 
Can  there  a  flower  this  Rose  exceed  ?" 

"I  will  not  deny  that  T  am  half  in  love  with  the  lines 
myself,  as  well  as  with  the  Roses,"  continued  he  ;  "  but 
let  us  be  seated  a  while  for  our  intended  purpose  upon 
this  bench,  Elliston,  while  the  girls  are  engaged  in  the 
house  ;  for  I  perceive  a  messenger  is  calling  them  away. 
We  will  join  you  soon  in  the  drawing-room,  ladies. 
Meantime,  '  Bon  soir  !'  "  said  he,  with  a  smile. 

With  what  delight  mm  reverts  to  his  college  hours  ! — 
that  portion  of  life  spent  so  industriously  plodding  over 
books,  maturing  the  mind,  and  fitting  it  to  enter  upon 
the  arena  of  life,  to  contest  with  its  cares  and  necessary 
trials.  The  stern,  dignified  faces  of  the  President  and 
Professors — the  mock-gravity  of  some  Tutors — the  long, 
perhaps  dry,  recitations  in  the  dead  languages — the  ro- 
guish pranks  and  sly  tricks  played  by  some  mischeivous 
wag,  who  perhaps  received  merited  disgrace — the  excitement 
attending  Commencement — the  valedictory  honors,  and 
the  parting  of  the  graduates — furnish  abundant  themes  of 
interest.  To  pursue  the  subject  further,  and  trace  the 
various  paths  which  they  have  entered  for  life — some, 
perhaps,  to  arrive  at  an  honorable  distinction  in  this  fa- 
vored country,  where  it  is  said  merit  receives  its  reward, 
and  poverty  is  no  bar  to  preferment ;  otliers  neglecting  to 
improve  the  talents  God  has  given  them,  pursuing  the 
downward  path  which  terminates  in  a  total  prostration  of 


54 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


hopes  in  this  ■world,  and  in  a  prospect  of  a  miserable 
eternit}' — these  subjects,  we  say,  would  make  one  forget- 
ful of  passing  time  ;  and  no  wonder  that  our  friends  were 
thus  occupied  till  a  late  hour,  ere  they  sought  the  house. 

it  may  be  well  to  mention  that  they  had  emulated  each 
other  in  the  college  race,  and  graduated  with  high  honors. 
Firmly  attached,  their  friendship  never  diminished,  not- 
withstanding their  paths  lay  widely  apart.  They  knew 
that 

"Equity  demandeth  recompense;  for  liigh  place,  calumny  and 
care ; 

For  state,  comfortless  splendor,  eating  out  the  heart  of  home ; 

For  warrior-fame,  dangers  and  death ;  for  a  name  among  the 
learned,  a  spirit  overstrained ; 

For  honor  of  all  kinds  the  goad  of  ambition ;  on  every  acquire- 
ment, the  tax  of  anxiety." 

Horace  Fordham  decided  to  dive  into  the  forbidding  vol- 
umes of  Blackstone,  Kent,  Chitty  and  Coke ;  and  by  mak- 
ing himself  acquainted  with  the  laws  of  nations,  rise  to 
eminence,  though  he  received  the  recompense  of  an  "  over- 
strained spirit,"  and  felt  "the  goad  of  ambition;"  still  he 
pressed  on  undaunted  and  uncomplaining.  Having  been 
admitted  into  the  high  courts  of  the  Slate,  he  retired  to 
his  quiet  home  on  the  bank  of  the  Hudson  River,  and  with 
an  only  sister  and  her  orphan  friend,  who  was  spending 
some  weeks  with  her,  enjoyed  the  luxuries  of  a  retired 
life,  and  cheered  the  declining  ])atlnvay  of  their  parents. 

The  gifted  Charles  Elliston,  feeling  that  the  pleasures 
of  this  world  would  soon  pass  away,  and  anxious  to  d(^  his 
Master's  bidding,  and  prepare  for  an  inheritanoe  above, 
entered  a  theolojifical  seininarv ;  and  in  due  time  took 
holy  orders,  and   entered  ujton  the  ministry  in  Baltimore. 


OURMOSS-ROSE.  55 

There,  by  precept  and  example,  he  was  the  means  of  do- 
ing great  good  ;  but  his  health  failing  by  close  applica- 
tion to  his  duties,  his  physician  advised  a  tour  to  the  north 
for  a  few  months,  much  to  the  regret  of  his  parish;  still 
they  felt  that  in  their  present  privation  rested  the  only 
hope  of  his  usefulness  and  happiness.  Many  a  sad  heart 
pressed  round  the  beloved  rector  for  a  parting  pressure  of 
the  hand  ;  many  a  tearful  eye  looted  up  as  the  voice  bade 
farewell.  The  good  young  man  gave  them  an  aflPection- 
ate  benediction,  and  was  soon  on  his  way  leisurely  north- 
ward. He  spent  several  days  both  in  Philadelphia  and 
New  York  ;  and  finding  his  health  improving,  he  de- 
termined to  extend  his  travels  somewhat  further,  and 
visit  his  old  friend  Horace  Fordham,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
after  leaving  Yale  College.  Accordingly  he  took  lodgings 
at  the  hotel  two  days  before  his  introduction  to  our  reader ; 
the  next  evening  was  invited  to  a  soiree  at  Coleman's ; 
and  now  came,  at  the  solicitation  of  his  friend  Horace,  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  his  sojourn  at  the  bouse  of  Mr. 
Fordham. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Morning  came  in  all  its  glory.  Who  does  not  love, 
above  all  seasons,  a  pleasant  June  morning  ;  and  who 
would  not  prefer  to  lose  a  few  hours'  sleep  in  that  part  of 
the  day,  for  the  far  more  rational  enjoyment  of  early 
rising;  ?  The  air  is  so  fresh  and  bracing — the  birds  are 
warbling  their  rich  love-notes — the  glorious  sun  sheds  his 
first  beams  on  the  green  hill-tops,  and  as  he  ascends  still 
higher,  changes  the  dew-drops  upon  the  grass  into  glitter- 


56  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

ing  gems — the  air  is  fragrant  with  flowers ;  and  while  the 
body  is  invigorated  and  refreshed,  the  soul  seems  to  over- 
flow with  gratitude  to  the  Creator,  and  love  to  all  man- 
kind. Does  not  this  leave  a  calm  within  the  breast,  a 
kind  of  forbearance  and  good  humor,  which  enables  us  the 
better  to  bear  the  crosses  and  vexations  of  the  dav  ? 

Charles  Elliston  rose  early,  and  threw  open  his  window 
to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  the  hour.  His  heart  warmed  with 
holy  love,  and  he  drew  near  in  reverence  to  his  Master,  and 
indulged,  as  was  his  custom,  in  a  sweet  season  of  secret 
devotion.  On  descendino-  to  the  sfarden,  he  found  Horace 
at  the  door  of  the  sitting-room,  who,  after  inquiring  how 
he  had  passed  the  night,  asked  if  he  would  like  a  walk  in 
the  fresh  air  before  breakfast ;  and  afterward  he  would 
show  him  some  portraits  that  were  said  to  be  good  like- 
nesses; upon  his  own  particularly,  he  wished  his  opinion. 

The  good  old  gentleman  and  lady  considered  the  so- 
ciety of  their  son's  friend  a  great  acquisiUon.  During  the 
breakfast  hour  they  drew  forth  the  rich  stores  of  his  mind, 
and  began  to  look  upon  him  as  a  being  of  superior  order. 
He  had  seen  much  of  the  world,  and  his  perceptive  facul- 
ties had  been  employed  as  well  as  the  intellectual — ever 
realizing  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  should  be 
required  to  render  an  account  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  improved  his  talents,  and  return  them  to  his  Lord. 

And  where  were  Laura  and  Ella,  meanwhile  ?  At  the 
breakfast  table,  surely,  drinking  in  the  draughts  of  wis- 
dom that  fell  from  the  lips  of  their  guest ;  as  first  simply 
replying  to  an  occasional  question,  and  afterwards  entering 
more  fully  into  the  general  conversation. 

"  What  think   you    of   my  portrait,   Elliston  ?"    asked 
Horace,  after  an  inspection  of  its  merits. 

"  A  perfect  likeness,  and  a  fine  painting  !"  was  the  re- 


OURMOSS-ROSE.  67 

ply.  "  In  my  opinion  it  could  not  be  improved.  The 
shades  are  admirably  applied  to  produce  a  life-like  ap- 
pearance.    Who  was  the  artist  ?" 

"A  lady  in  our  neighborhood — a  particular  friend," 
I'eplied  Horace,  "  to  whom  I  will  introduce  you  before  you 
leave." 

"  Do  so.  I  have  a  strong  curiosity  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  lady  who  possesses  such  rare  talent." 

"  She  is  not  ambitious  of  beinor  known  to  the  world  as 
an  artist ;  indeed  it  is  kept  a  profound  secret,  and  she  dis- 
plays her  skill  upon  the  canvass  only  for  her  own  family, 
or  some  favored  friend.  I  said  I  would  introduce  you  to 
her ;  but  must  be  excused  from  doing  so,  till  I  am  con- 
vinced your  heart  is  not  at  your  own  disposal,"  said  Ford- 
ham  as  he  passed  on  to  the  next  picture. 

"  I  believe  I  have  caught  your  meaning,  my  friend," 
said  the  young  clergyman ;  "  and  fear  I  shall  lose  the 
privilege  of  seeing  your  inamorata,  upon  those  terms ;  for, 
truth  to  tell,  I  came  here  heart-free,  (and  his  voice 
slightly  faltered ;)  there  are  many  truly  excellent  and  in- 
tellectual ladies  in  the  circle  of  my  acquaintance  at  the 
South,  who  will  doubtless  make  worthy  wives  ;  but  some- 
how, I  never  sought  such  a  life-companion.  And  yet  I  am 
not  a  confirmed,  unrepentant  bachelor." 

The  merits  and  demerits  of  each  likeness  were  dis- 
cussed, as  the  friends  continued  their  examination. 

"  Is  this  a  picture,  or  a  portrait  ?"  asked  Mr.  Elliston, 
as  he  stood  admiringly  before  a  large  painting. 

"  It  is  both  a  picture  and  a  portrait,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  and  was  executed  by  a  travelling  artist  about  twelve 
years  since.  To  me  it  is  full  of  interest ;  and  if  you  will 
sit  down  here,  beside  me,  I  will  explain  it." 

Both  being  seated,  he  began  :  "  The  sweet,  thoughtful 
4 


58 


THE     MOSS-ROSE.- 


looking  girl,  plainly  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a  white 
lily,  which  the  other  has  just  given  her,  is  Vesta  Wilmot. 
A  smile  lights  her  pale,  sad  face,  to  hear  the  voice  of 
kindness  from  a  fellow-being ;  and  to  receive  a  token  of 
love,  though  it  be  only  a  simple  flower.  The  little  curly- 
headed  cherub  beside  her,  with  a  basket  of  flowers  upon 
her  arm,  guarded  by  the  faithful  Fido,  and  who  is  offering 
a  Moss  Rose  to  the  little  orphan,  is  my  sister  Laura. 
Being  an  only  daughter,  therefore,  without  a  playmate, 
except  myself,  who  am  seven  years  her  elder,  she  was 
much  alone,  and  attached  herself  to  birds  and  flowers. 
Indeed  she  seemed  to  have  a  loving  heart,  and  a  kind 
word  for  almost  everything  that  could  understand  her ; 
and  the  instinct  of  animals  generally  prompts  them  to 
know  a  fiiend.  She  was  permitted  at  all  times  to  ramble 
in  ihe  garden,  and  sometimes  in  the  fields,  though  rarely 
without  an  attendant ;  and  a  certain  part  of  the  garden  was 
reserved  for  her  especial  use,  to  gratify  her  love  for  those 
httle  '  gifts  from  Heaven,'  as  she  called  them. 

"When  about  six  years  of  age,  one  morning  in  the 
beginning  of  August,  after  having  attended  to  her  usual 
task — my  good  mother  being  her  teacher — she  tied  on 
a  httle  sun- bonnet,  took  a  basket  on  her  arm,  and  said  to 
the  companion  of  her  rambles,  '  Come,  Fido,  come  with 
me,  and  gather  flowers.'  Away  both  bounded  in  biwh 
glee,  and  her  absence  elicited  no  an.xiety  till  noon  came, 
and  they  returned  not.  A  servant  was  sent  to  the  <i-ar- 
den  to  seek  her,  but  the  search  was  fruitless.  In  a  state 
of  distraction,  my  mother  sent  the  servants  in  every  direc- 
tion to  scour  the  fields  and  groves ;  but  in  vain.  My 
father  was  absent  on  business,  and  I  returned  from  a 
neighboring  town,  with  the  Umner,  in  time  to  witness  my 
mother's  distress.     1  begged  iu-r  to  be  calm,  and  told  her 


OUR     MOSS-ROSE.  59 

I  would  find  my  sister,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible ;  and 
assured  her  I  did  not  doubt  ray  success,  as  I  knew  all  her 
favorite  haunts.  Each  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  we 
were  off  in  a  moment. 

"  More  than  a  mile  from  the  house  is  a  narroAV  gorge,  * 
where  a  small  stream  runs  rapidly  through,  at  times  quite 
deep,  and  on  its  banks,  and  in  the  shady  nooks,  are  wild 
flowers  in  great  beauty  and  abundance.  To  that  place 
Laura  frequently  resorted,  nor  left  till  she  had  filled  her 
basket.  It  was  so  cool  and  shady,  she  could  hardly  have 
found  a  more  delightful  one.  Thither  we  bent  our  steps, 
and  tying  our  horses,  we  took  the  small  footpath  which 
led  from  the  highway,  and  soon  found  ourselves  in  that 
romantic  spot.  Long  and  vainly  we  sought  her  ;  and  we 
made  the  woods  reverberate  with  the  name  of  '  Laura  ;' 
but  echo  alone  replied.  As  we  were  about  to  leave,  I 
discovered  her  sun-bonnet  upon  a  little  mossy  seat  I  had 
constructed  for  her.  I  called  again  with  the  same  result 
as  before.     *  Laura  is  drowned  !'  I  exclaimed  in  agony. 

"  '  Not  so,'  said  my  companion  ;  *  see  !  here  are  her 
footprints,  and  those  of  the  dog.  Let  us  follow  up  the 
stream  !'  and  we'ipushed  on  with  fresh  hope.  Sometimes 
we  would  lose  sight  of  the  tracks,  and  my  heart  seemed 
to  die  within  me ;  again  some  little  token  would  encourage 
us  on.  Once,  I  recollect,  we  found  a  green  rose-leaf  in 
the  path,  and  I  knew  she  must  have  dropped  it  there ;  for 
no  roses  grew  near  that  sequestered  spot. 

"  The  stream  comes  tumbling  down  from  yonder  moun- 
tain, and  forms  many  little  cascades  and  waterfalls  ere  it 
comes  to  the  spot  which  I  have  spoken  of  as  '  the  gorge.' 
After  going  perhaps  a  mile  beyond  the  last-mentioned 
place,  we  came  to  a  sudden  bend  in  the  stream  ;  and  turn- 
ing an  angle,  this  tableau  vivant,    as  represented  in  the 


60  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

picture,  burst  upon  our  enraptured  sight,  a  little  distance 
before  us.  We  paused  in  silence  to  contemplate  it  for  a 
moment.  The  little  orphan  Vesta,  some  four  years  older 
than  my  sister,  was  evidently  on  an  errand  for  the  family 
with  whom  she  resided  ;  and  setting  down  her  large, 
covered  basket  near  the  shining  waterfall,  paused  to  rest 
and  cool  herself  in  the  thick  shade.  Laura's  face  was 
turned  from  us,  so  that  she  did  not  perceive  our  approach  ; 
and  we  heard  her  say  :  '  Keep  the  lily  ;  it  is  purity  :  and 
take  this  Moss  Rose  too,  for  it  means  elegance  and  superior 
merit.  Love  them,  for  my  sake,  httle  girl ;  for  you  say 
you  have  no  mamma  or  papa  to  love !  Hence  the  origin 
of  her  appellation,  '  The  Moss  Rose.' 

"  '  Here  is  a  fine  subject  for  my  pencil,'  said  my  com- 
panion Alexander  ;  '  I  will  observe  it  well.  But  can  I 
ever  equal  it !  the  round,  white  neck  and  auburn  curls  of 
our  little  favorite — the  well-formed  arm  and  delicate  hand 
extended  over  her  flower-basket,  as  if  to  protect  it,  almost 
restincr  upon  Fido's  well-washed  coat — the  left  hand  off"er- 
ing  the  rose  witli  so  much  grace — and  that  pensive  face 
illumined  by  a  beam  of  joy  that  she  has  found  a  friend — 
the  dense  shade-trees — the  crystal  streatn  and  the  silver 
waterfall — beautiful !  beautiful  !' 

"  I  desired  my  friend  to  remain  where  he  could  watch 
my  sister,  while  I  flew  to  relieve  my  mother's  extreme 
anxiety ;  and  promised  to  return  immediately  after,  and 
accompany  them  home.  1  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
our  o-ood  mother's  joy,  that  the  lost  was  found — her  meek 
and  quiet  spirit  poured  forth  its  gratitude  to  Heaven  in 
secret.  w^ 

"  '  Come  and  see  me,  sometimes,  at  my  papa's  house,    ■ 
will  you  not?'  said  Laura,   as  I  took  her   by  the  hand  to 
lead  lier  hf)nie  ;  '  and  do  not  cry  any  more  for  your  papa 


OUR     MOSS-ROSE. 


61 


and  mamma,  for  they  cannot  come  to  you  ;  but  my  mamma 
says  if  we  are  good,  when  we  die,  we  shall  go  to  heaven, 
and  be  with  our  friends  there  ;  and  if  yours  are  in  heaven 
they  will  know  if  you  are  good,  and  will  look  down  and 
smile,  and  take  care  of  you.' 

"  My  friend  Alexander  completed  this  picture  with 
credit  to  himself,  and  I  love  to  look  at  it ;  it  reminds  me 
of  those  by-gone  days,  and  if  I  ever  have  any  religious 
feelings,  it  is  when  gazing  on  the  representation  of  so  much 
innocence.  I  must  accompany  you,  some  fine  day,  to  the 
two  most  conspicuous  places  in  my  story — that  is,  if  you 
will  feel  interested  in  them.  They  are  slightly  altered, 
but  not  entirely  changed." 

•'  I  am,  indeed,  deeply  interested  in  all,"  said  Mr.  Ellis- 
ton  ;  "  but  where  is  the  little  orphan  ?" 

"  She  is  the  accomplished  wife  of  our  worthy  rector," 
answered  Horace.  "  You  will  see  her,  perhaps,  at  our 
house  this  evening ;  and  a  very  lovely  woman  she  is,  be- 
lieve me." 

"  By  what  good  fortune,  or  rather  providence,  did  she 
obtain  an  education  ?" 

"  Laura  recounted  her  adventures  to  our  parents,  and 
earnestly  besought  that  the  sad  little  girl  might  come 
and  live  with  them,  and  be  her  sister ;  and  that  her  own 
papa  and  mamma  would  be  Vesta's  too," 

"And  they  consented  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  they  were  always  most  happy  to  grant  any 
reasonable  re'quest  to  their  darling  daughter,  and  circum- 
stances being  taken  collectively,  they  considered  it  a  duty, 
as  well  as  pleasure,  to  do  so.  Both  girls  had  the  same 
teachers — the  same  lessons — the  same  attention  ;  and,  as 
far  as  could  be  discerned,  the  same  aftection  manifested  to 
them.     Two  years  since,  she  became  the  happy  bride  of 


62  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

the  Rev.  Mr.  D ,  and  receives  the  merited  esteem  of 

the  parish." 

"  How  mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence !"  said 
Elliston.  "  Great  must  be  the  satisfaction  of  your  ex- 
cellent parents  and  sister  to  feel  that  they  have  been  the 
means  of  doing  so  much  good." 


CHAPTER    III. 

We  pass  over  the  events  of  the  day  till  evening  ;  suffice 
it  to  say,  it  had  been  a  day  of  heartfelt  enjoyment.  The 
rooms  were  brilliantly  lighted,  and  a  few  select  friends 
joined  the  family  circle.      Among  these  were  the   Rev. 

Mr.  D and  lady.     Our  two  young  clergymen  were 

drawn  together  by  a  similarity  of  tastes,  pursuits,  and  ef- 
forts, and  shortly  acquired  the  familiarity  of  brothers.  It 
was  pleasant  for  each  to  listen  to,  and  recount  the  success 
of  his  labors  in  the  ministry,  and  the  great  good  each  de- 
signed, with  God's  help,  to  accomplish. 

"  But  I  must  not  allow  my  selfishness  to  pre\'ent  you 
from  enjoying  the  society  of  those  around  us,"   said  Mr. 

D ,      "  I  trust  we  may  have  frequent  opportunities 

to  meet  and  resume  our  subject." 

Charles  Elliston  found  Mrs.  D all  that  his  friend 

had  described  her  to  be  ;  and  succeeded  in  tracing  some 
httle  resemblance  to  the  fair  lily  whicli  had*  so  much  in- 
terested him  in  the  picture.  The  sweet  "  Moss  Rose" 
too  was  there — his  beau  ideal  oi  perfection;  but  a  thorn 
prevented  his  approach.  Walter  Lee  was  ever  at  her 
side  ofliciously  escorting  her  from  place  to  place — stand- 
ing beside  her  at  the  piano,  and  evidently  willing  that  all 


OUR     MOSS-ROSE.  63 

present  should  look  iqion  him  as  her  accepted  lover. 
More  than  once  Mr.  EUiston  instinctively,  met  the  glance 
of  her  mild  eye,  and  lie  tliought  she  looked  embarrassed — 
uneasy.  Could  Laura  indeed  be  betrothed  ?  All  was  to 
him  a  mystery. 

A  severe  head-ache  induced  him  to  leave  the  company 
apparently  unobserved.  He  sought  tlie  fresh  air,  hoping 
its  gentle  influence  would  quiet  the  throbbings  of  his 
heart.  "  Why  should  I  be  troubled,"  thought  he,  "  or 
encourage  sentiments  which  may  distui-b  her  happiness, 
and  forever  destroy  my  own  ?  I  must  be  more  guarded 
in  future,  and  look  upon  her  as  the  almost  wedded  sister 
of  a  dear  friend.  Assist  me,  heavenly  Father,  to  tear  all 
idols  from  my  heart,  and  worship  only  Thee  !" 

He  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  and  with  forced  com- 
posure sought  to  aid  in  entertaining  the  company.  At  an 
early  hour  they  dispersed.  That  night,  in  the  loneliness 
of  his  chamber,  by  self-examination  and  prayer  his  mind 
became  calm,  and  sleep  came  with  her  gentle  soothings  to 
lull  him  to  forgetfulness.  The  excitements  of  the  day — 
the  interesting  picture  and  associations — the  union  of  con- 
genial spirits — the  blighted  hopes,  which,  until  now,  he 
scarcely  knew  had  sprung  up  in  his  heart,  all  were  for- 
gotten ;  and  he  awoke  in  the  morning  refreshed  and 
grateful. 

A  week  passed  rapidly  by ;  another  and  another  suc- 
ceeded, all  frauarht  with  interest  The  moruino:  ride — the 
pleasant  ramble — the  friendly  call — hours  for  reading, 
study,  meditation,  and  mutual  entertainment  occupied  the 
time,  and  Elliston  still  lingered  at  the  home  of  his  hospi- 
table friend,  and  still  became  more  unwilling  to  say  adieu. 
But  he  had  not  even  the  plea  of  indisposition  now  to  de- 
tain him  there,  for  the  fine  bracing  air  had  nearly  restored 


64 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


his  health,  and  he  intimated  to  his  friend  Horace  that  he 
purposed  returning  to  Baltimore  in  about  a  week  to  re- 
sume his  charge. 

"  Not,  surely,  in  this  unhealthy  season  ?"  said  Fordham  ; 
"it  would  be  madness  to  go  now.  Stay  with  us  till 
August  is  past,  and  then  you  can  go  with  greater  safety." 

"  But  remember,  Horace,  my  little  flock  there  are  as 
sheep  without  a  shepherd." 

"Would  it  not  injure  you  very  much,  without  benefit- 
ting them,  if  you  return  before  your  health  is  permanently 
established  ?  I  believe  I  must  exeicise  my  prerogative 
as  a  physician,  for  I  have  undertaken  your  cure,  and  I 
shall  insist  that  you  remnin  here  so  long  as  there  is  any 
danger  from  leaving." 

"  But  the  necessity  of  thercase,  my  kind  friend  ; — indeed 
there  are  important  reasons  why  I  should  go." 

"  And  I  have  important  reasons  why  you  should  re- 
main," said  Horace.  "  In  the  first  place,  your  health  is 
not  firmly  established,  though  much  improved ;  in  the 
second  place,  the  yellow  fever  is  ravaging  the  city  ;  and 
in  the  third  place,  we  wish  your  presence  at  a  certain 
wedding  which  is  to  take  place  in  the  next  month." 

"  Spare  me  !  spare  me,  Fordham  !  Do  not  ask  me  to 
witness  that  marriage  !"  said  Elliston,  thrown  off  his  guard. 

"  You  amaze  me,  Elliston  !" 

"  This  is  not  unexpected,  Fordham.  I  have,  for  some 
time,  been  convinced  that  such  an  event  must  take  place 
sooner  or  later ;  but  hoped  it  might  be  delayed  till  I  was 
far  away.  Horace,  my  friend,  you  will  not  be  displeased, 
I  trust,  when  I  say  that  I  had  fondly  hoped  to  call  you 
brotlier,  by  a  union  with  the  only  lady  I  ever  ventured  to 
love — the  most  excellent  of  womankind.  Do  I  need  an 
apology  for  loving  exalted  worth  ?     It  could  not  be  that 


OURMOSS-ROSE.  65 

I  should  associate  thus  with  her — seeing  her  daily  as  she 
is — fulfilling  all  the  sacred  duties  of  daughter,  sister,  friend 
and  neighbor— beautiful,  intellectual,  and  accomplished — 
and  not  be  in  danger  of  loving  her.  I  had  the  vanity  to 
suppose  that  my  character,  prospects,  and  family  were  not 
objectionable  ;  but  she  will  never  know  the  sentiments 
with  which  she  has  inspired  me ;  it  would  wound  her 
gentle  spirit  to  think  she  had  made  me  unhappy  ;  and  in 
fulfilling  the  duties  of  my  holy  office,  where  I  shall  no 
longer  see  her,  I  shall  endeavor  to  be  cheerful  even  if  I 
cannot  forget." 

"  Elliston,  I  suspected  your  attachment  to  my  sister  ; 
why  did  you  not  propose  ?  If  I  can  read  woman's  heart 
aright,  you  would  have  had  little  to  fear." 

"  Was  she  not  betrothed  to  Lee  ?" 

"  No  ;  and  will  never  marry  him.  She  declined  his 
proposal  before  you  came  ;  and,  for  aught  I  know,  stands 
a  good  chance  of  being  an  old  maid,  unless  the  Rev. 
Charles  Elliston  condescends  to  conduct  her  to  the  altar  at 
the  same  time  that  your  humble  servant,  Horace  Ford- 
bam,  Esq.,  is  united  to  his  beloved  Ella  Morris  in  August 
next. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

What  a  revulsion  of  feeling  !  It  would  require  the  pen 
of  a  ready  writer  to  describe  it — we  dare  not.  Elliston 
did  not  go  south,  till  after  his  friend's  wedding — the  urgent 
reasons  no  longer  existed.  Did  "  our  sweet  Moss  Rose" 
reject  him?  No!  but  "with  deepened  glow"  she  said, 
"  Ask  my  father  !"  That  excellent  old  gentleman  replied, 
4* 


66 


THE      MOSS-ROSE. 


"  Mr.  Elliston,  you  alone  are  worthy  of  her.  I  confide 
her  to  your  care ;  watch  over  and  protect  our  cherished 
'  Moss  Rose  ;'  and  may  Heaven's  choicest  blessings  attend 
you  both  !" 

"And  now,  my  good  brother-in-law  in  perspective," 
said  Horace,  "  shall  I  introduce  you  to  the  artist,  whose 
skill  upon  my  portrait  called  forth  such  commendations 
from  your  lips  ?  Our  '  Moss  Rose,'  Mr.  Elliston  !  Ah,  I 
perceive  you  are  already  acquainted — well,  then,  permit 
me  to  introduce  to  you  another  likeness  from  her  pencil. 
Do  you  recognize  this  ?"  and  he  brought  a  portrait  for- 
ward. 

"  My  own  likeness,  Laura  !  and  you  painted  it  ?"  She 
blushingly  acknowledged  the  secret  to  the  delighted 
original. 

Meantime  Laura  and  Ella  were  busily  engaged  in  pre- 
paring for  the  eventful  period,  when  they  were  to  take 
upon  themselves  the  duties  of  a  wife.  It  was  arrant^ed 
that  the  double  wedding  should  be  solemnized  in  the 
church  ;  and  the  family  party  were  to  go  to  Baltimore  for 
a  few  weeks;  stopping  for  a  short  time  in  New  York, 
where  Ella's  relatives  resided.  One  day,  when  the  friends 
were  engaged  with  their  needles,  and  laying  plans  for  the 
future,  Laura  said — 

"  Dear  Ella !  you  and  I  shall  live  so  far  from  each 
other,  I  fear  we  shall  seldom  meet — but  you  will  be  a 
daughter  to  my  dear  parents;  otherwise  I  could  not 
leave  them.     I  trust  you  will  supply  my  loss  to  thom." 

"And  Mr.  Elliston  will  supply  my  loss  to  )-ou,  dear 
Laura  !  I  have  no  fears  for  your  happiness,  nor  many  for 
my  own.  By  the  bye,  Laura,  docs  Mr.  Elliston  love 
flowers  ?"  said  she,  archly. 

A  sweet  smile  was  the  only  answer. 


OURMOSS-ROSE.  67 

Time  continued  his  course  as  usual.  The  sun  rose  and 
set — and  rose  and  set — and  July  was  ended.  Even  to  the 
lovers,  the  month  seemed  very  short — to  the  parents 
still  shorter ;  for  they  realized  that  the  time  was  at  hand, 
when  the  best  of  daughters  would  be  with  them  no  more, 
for  a  season — and  they  felt  that  the  absence  of  her  gentle 
heart  and  loving  smile  would  leave  a  blank  difficult  to  be 
filled.  But  the  sacrifice  was  for  her  happiness — with  the 
chosen  of  her  heart,  she  would  exert  a  hallowed  influence 
around  her — equalling,  at  least,  her  beloved  Vesta  in  dis- 
charging the  duties  of  a  clergyman's  wife ;  and  if  they 
permitted  tears  to  fall  at  thoughts  of  parting,  they  fell  not 
before  mortal  eye. 

The  day  arrived.  The  church  was  filled.  Charles  El- 
liston  and  Horace  Fordham  stood  before  the  altar  beside 
the  chosen  of  each  heart.  Robed  in  simple  muslin,  pure 
as  the  virgin  snow — a  white  Moss  Rose-bud  in  the  hair  of 
each,  Laura  and  Ella  promised  "love,  obedience,  truth  ;" 
and  after  a  few  minutes  of  deep  solemnity,  the  "  man  of 
God"  pronounced  each  pair  "  husband  and  wife." 

As  they  were  entering  the  carriage,  Mr.  Ellis  ton  said 
to  the  parents,  "  You  have  indeed  bestowed  upon  me  a 
treasure ;  this  is  now  my  own  "  sweet  Moss  Rose,"  which 
I  have  promised  to  love  and  cherish — and  if  transplanted 
to  a  southern  soil,  I  trust  it  may  continue  to  flourish  in 
beauty  there,  and  diffuse  fragrance  and  loveliness  far  and 
wide." 


THE    LIFE    CLOCK 


FEOM      THE      GE&MAN. 

There  is  a  little  mystic  clock, 

No  human  eye  hath  seen, 
That  beateth  on — and  beateth  on. 

From  morning  until  e'en. 

And  when  the  soul  is  wrapped  in  sleep. 

And  heareth  not  a  sound. 
It  ticks,  and  ticks,  the  livelong  night. 

And  never  runneth  down. 

Oh,  wondrous  is  the  work  of  art. 
Which  knells  the  passing  hour. 

But  art  ne'er  formed — nor  mind  conceived 
The  Life  Clock's  magic  power. 

Nor  set  in  gold,  nor  decked  with  gems. 
By  wealth  and  pride  possessed ; 

But  rich  or  poor,  or  high  or  low. 
Each  bears  it  in  his  breast. 

When  life's  deep  stream  'mid  beds  of  flowers, 

All  still  and  softly  glides. 
Like  the  wavelet's  step,  with  a  gentle  beat 

It  warns  of  passing  tides. 


THELIFECLOCK.  69 

When  threat'ning  darkness  gathers  o'er, 

And  hope's  bright  visions  flee, 
Like  the  sullen  stroke  of  muffled  oar, 

It  beateth  heavily. 

When  passion  nerves  the  warrior's  breast, 

For  deeds  of  hate  and  wrona:, 
Though  heeded  not  the  fearful  sound. 

The  knell  is  deep  and  strong. 

When  eyes  to  eyes  are  gazing  soft. 

And  tender  words  are  spoken. 
Then  fast  and  wild  it  rattles  on. 

As  if  with  love  'twere  broken. 

Such  is  the  clock  that  measures  life, 

Of  flesh  and  spirit  blended  ; 
And  thus  'twill  run  within  the  breast. 

Till  this  strange  life  is  ended. 


D  E  S  r  I  N  Y 


BY     F  . 


"  For  atijlit  thai  I  couli)  over  read, 
Coulil  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 
The  c.iurso  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth  ; 
Bui  either  it  was  diflerenl  in  blood, 
Or  else  misgrafled  in  resp>-ct  ofyears, 
f)r  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends  ; 
Or  if  there  we-e  a  symiia'hy  in  choice, 
War,  deatli,  or  sicjjness  did  lay  siege  to  it. 
Making  it  momentary  as  a  sound, 
Swift  as  a  sliadow,  short  as  any  dream  : 
So  qnick  bright  things  come  to  confusion." 

The  splendid  apartments  of  Mr.  Bertine  were  crowded 
with  visitors.  They  were  all  light,  gayety,  and  beauty. 
The  rich  damask  curtains  hung  in  heavy  crimson  folds 
around  the  windows.  The  shaded  lamps  shed  their  softly 
brilliant  rays  upon  the  dazzling  throng  which  decorated 
one  of  the  most  elegant  houses  in  the  city.  Music 
breathed  to  the  step  of  angel  forms  mingling  in  the  grace- 
ful dance,  and  a  spirit  of  happiness  seemed  as  universally 
diffused  as  if  the  children  of  our  fair  mother  Eve  were  yet 
gliding  among  the  careless  bowers  of  Eden.  Of  the 
sweet  girls  who  gave  witcherj^  to  the  swift  evening,  no  one 
was  more  fascinating  than  Marion  Bertine.  Equally  cal- 
culated to  strike  the  attention  of  the  amateur  of  beauty,  or 
to  awaken  the  interest  of  the  admirer  of  mind/»  she 
charmed  all  who    came   within  her  sphere.     She  would 


DESTINY.  71 

reason  with  the  sophist,  and  reply  to  the  "vvit.  The  dull 
were  amused  with  her  facility  in  eliciting  their  slender  col- 
loquial powers,  and  the  sentimental  and  romantic  found 
responsive  feelings  in  all  her  words  and  actions. 

As  the  object  of  general  admiration  she  was,  of  course, 
usually  blockaded  by  an  army  of  fashionable  heroes,  such 
as  ever  seek  to  dwell  in  the  light  of  fair  ladies'  eyes  ;  con- 
tent with  a  stray  glance,  or  a  civil,  perhaps  an  accidental 
smile.  Tall  gentlemen  laid  at  her  shrine  their  humble 
offerings  of  gallantry  and  wit ;  and,  set  off  by  all  the  art 
of  fashion,  with  large  whiskers  and  elegant  attitudes,  be- 
sieged her  wherever  she  went ;  and  others,  of  lesser 
dimensions,  rustled,  glittered,  and -rattled  in  her  train,  with 
chains,  seals,  white  gloves,  and  glasses,  who  could  dance, 
sing,  and  bow,  lead  a  lady  to  her  piano  with  studied 
grace,  whispering  and  smiling  at  the  height  of  their  glory. 
It  was  not  easy  to  gather  from  the  young  lady's  deport- 
ment that  she  was  dissatisfied  with  her  subjects,  for  her 
face  bespoke  a  mind  at  ease,  and  a  heart  free  from  the 
touch  of  deep  feeling ;  but  women  are  well  versed  in  the 
art  of  hiding  their  thoughts,  and,  like  some  painted  cloud 
that  conceals  beneath  its  surface  the  elements  of  tempest, 
many  a  serene  countenance  is  lighted  with  smiles,  while 
the  bosom  cherishes  anxiety  or  anguish.  A  close  observer 
might  have  detected,  in  the  countenance  of  Marion,  an 
occasional  restlessness,  not  that  of  joy ;  and  traced  her 
glances,  stolen  at  long  intervals,  when  most  unnoticed,  to 
the  figure  of  one  who  apparently  participated  but  slightly 
in  the  surroundinor  animation.  His  seriousness  was  not 
without  comment.  One  condemned  it  as  affectation ;  an- 
other ridiculed  it  as  folly.  One  of  his  friends,  with  a  view 
to  rally  him  into  better  spirits,  addressed  him  laugh- 
ingly— 


72  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Why,  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you,  Wilson  ? 
Are  you  sick,  or  married,  that  you  stalk  about  as  stately 
as  Childe  Harold  ?" 

"  I  am  neither  sick  nor  married,  Harry,  but  enjoy  ray- 
self  uncommonly  well." 

"  Then  let  me  introduce  you  to  some  Hebe  here,  whose 
smiles  shall  call  out  your  sense,  if  sense  you  have.  Yon- 
der is  one — that  tall,  beautiful,  blue-eyed  girl.  See  how 
she  casts  about  her  those  radiant  eyes.  There  is  death  in 
every  beam.  She  is  merry,  too,  as  a  bird.  Can  you  be- 
hold all  those  sweet  thoughts  of  hers  escaping  so  pro- 
fusely, without  a  wish  to  catch  some  ?  Come,  let  me  in- 
troduce you." 

"  I  thank  you,  Hal,"  said  his  serious  companion  ;  "  I  am 
not  in  the  mood.     I  should  rather  be  a  looker-on." 

"  But,"  rejoined  he,  "  direct  your  eyes  to  yon  other 
nymph.  By  all  the  graces,  she  is  beautiful !  Care  never 
came  to  that  brow,  nor  tears  to  those  eyes,  unless  pity 
sometimes  moistened  them  from  the  fountain  of  a  heart 
pure  as  the  element  of  heaven." 

"  Go,  rattle  your  nonsense  into  other  ears,  eloquent 
Hal,"  said  Wilson,  turning  away  from  the  unconscious 
belle,  "  and  leave  me  to  the  selection  of  my  own  divini- 
ties." 

"  Well,  one  more,  Charles.  There  is  Miss  Bertine  her- 
self. If  you  scowl  on  her  as  you  do  on  my  other  adora- 
bles,  you  may  buy  yourself  a  tub  and  set  up  for  Diogenes 
at  once.  Look  at  her  Charles.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a 
smile,  and  wasted  too,  by  all  that's  lovely,  upon  a  com- 
mon fop  ?  There  are  lips  I  never  looked  upon  without 
dreaming  of  kisses,  and  a  voice — listen,  and  let  its  warm 
tones  melt  your  frozen  philosophy  into  love.  She  is  beau- 
tiful as  a  dream." 


DESTINY.  73 

"  Beautiful,  indeed,"  murmured  Charles  ;  but  in  a  tone 
so  low  and  tremulous,  so  different  from  the  careless  voice 
with  which  fashionable  young'  men  laud  the  features  of  a 
passing  belle,  that  his  companion,  surprised,  looked  up 
into  his  face.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Charles; 
"  but"— 

"Why,"  interrupted  the  other,  laughing,  "  there  is  no 
occasion  to  beg  my  pardon  for  calling  Miss  Bertine  beau- 
tiful." 

"  I  meant" — 

"Oh,  no  matter  what  you  meant.  Nature  never  made 
a  more  lovely  being,  and  if,  as  by  your  look  I  surmise,  you 
have  thought  of  her  before,  walk  up  to  her;  she's  the 
very  thing  for  you — rich,  handsome,  well  educated,  amia- 
ble ;  she'll  make  your  fortune,  my  boy — that  is,  if  3'ou  can 
get  her." 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Charles,  with  even  a  slight 
curl  of  scorn  upon  his  lip,  "I  have  not  the  least  intention 
or  wish  that  way." 

"  Glad  of  it,  my  friend ;  for,  between  you  and  me,  her 
father  is  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  just  as  ambitious.  No- 
thing will  suit  him  less  than  a  hundred  thousand,  with  an 
ambassador,  judge,  or  colonel ;  but  never  mind,  there  are 
plenty  more  as  good  as  she.  Yonder's  my  Charlotte — I 
would  not  give  her  for  a  hundred  Miss  Ber tines  ;  she  sees 
me — she  beckons.  You  see  what  an  irresistible  attraction 
she  has  in  her  smile.  Ah,  the  little  jade !  Good  by,  good 
by,"  and  off  he  dashed  after  his  Charlotte,  leaving  Charles 
in  a  humor  of  no  very  agreeable  nature. 

Wilson  was  poor  and  proud.  Struggling  with  the  diffi- 
culties which  ever  oppress  such  a  character,  had  not  yet 
diminished  his  povert}^  nor  lowered  his  pride;  and,  at  this 
time,  he  saw   himself   surrounded   by   apparently  insur- 


74  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

moimtable  obstacles,  with  a  disappointment  whibli  shaded 
all  his  tliouirhts.  The  conflicting  emotions  of  his  mind 
were  gradually  undermining  his  constitution,  and  he  aban- 
doned himself  to  a  kind  of  despondency,  which  caused  him 
to  sicken  at  hope,  as  productive  of  only  despair.  It  was 
not  his  fear  either  to  live  or  die.  But  this  vacillation  be- 
tween life  and  death — this  soft  hour  of  pleasure,  suc- 
ceeded by  long  ones  of  misgiving  and  anguish,  poisoned 
all  his  comfort,  and  gave  him  a  tinge  of  misanthropy  to- 
tally foreign  to  his  nature.  It  was  under  the  influence  of 
such  impressions  that  he  had  met  and  loved  Marion  Ber- 
tine  ;  loved  her  against  his  own  wish  and  resolution  ;  loved 
her  in  spite  of  all  his  endeavors  to  the  contrary,  and  witli 
shame  at  his  weakness  in  yielding  pride  to  passion.  His 
character  was  one  of  impulse  rather  than  of  reason  ;  and  al- 
thoutrh  he  had  determined  to  avoid  all  intercourse  with 
one  whom  fortune  had  made  so  much  his  superior  in 
wealth,  and  consequently  in  the  rank  of  fashion,  yet  acci- 
dent— as  if  some  mischievous  spirit  delighted  to  frustrate 
his  plans — would  constantl}^  fling  them  into  each  other's 
society,  and  surprise  them  in  delightful  but  dangerous  sit- 
uations. No  communication  had  passed  between  them 
but  those  nameless  and  irresistible  passages  in  tlieir  famil- 
iarity with  each  other,  which  are  felt  like  instinct  infused 
into  the  heart  by  nature.  A  mere  consciousness — a 
dream,  a  doubt — rather  than  any  thing  to  be  recalled  and 
admitted  into  calculation,  was  all  the  evidence  either  had 
detected  of  a  mutual  attachment.  On  this  evening  Charles 
had  observed  her  closely  as  circumstances  would  permit ; 
and  as  a  dark  conviction  that  he  was  surrounded  by  men 
wealthier  and  happier  than  himself,  induced  him  to  stand 
a^oof  from  their  idle  mirth,  his  pride  and  impetuous  dispo- 
sition urged  him  into  a  conclusion  that  he  held  no  place  in 


DESTINY.  75 

her  affection.  It  caused  in  his  manner  towards  her  an  in- 
difference, perhaps  a  rudeness,  which  the  lady  felt  and 
retaliated  by  a  display  of  spirits  more  than  usually  exu- 
berant. He  called  up  all  his  energy,  and  with  a  cheerful- 
ness altogether  artificial,  paid  his  attentions  to  a  charming 
girl,  who  received  them  with  complacency  ;  and  thus  the 
evening  passed  away  in  mutual  error. 

Marion  returned  to  her  pillow  with  a  sad  conviction  that 
Wilson  had  never  thought  of  her  as  a  wife,  and  a  conse- 
quent resolution  to  banish  him  from  her  mind  at  every 
sacrifice ;  and  Charles  reconciled,  or  deemed  that  he  re- 
conciled himself  to  fate,  in  yielding  his  sweet  false  dream 
of  one  whose  affections  seemed  divided  among  a  multipli- 
city of  admirers,  and  who  would  look  down,  nay,  who  had 
looked  down  upon  him  with  contempt. 

'*  Yes,"  said  he,  as  he  strided  on  in  the  darkness  of  mid- 
night to  his  home,  "  yes !  I  caught  her  eyes,  and  they 
flashed  upon  me  with  scorn,  while  her  smiles  were  lavished 
upon  the  butterflies  around  her,  as  if  each  were  destined 
to  be  her  husband.  Wherefore  have  I  fallen  into  this  dis- 
graceful weakness  ?  What  am  I,  that  I  should  intrude 
my  poverty  upon  her  brilliant  sphere  ?  If  she  were  poor 
and  wretched,  if  she  needed  one  to  live  in  obscurity,  or 
die  in  anguish  for  her,  then  should  she  behold  me  at  her 
feet ;  but  now,  in  possession  of  all  that  ornaments  and 
sweetens  life,  with  those  at  her  bidding  who  will  lead  her 
the  round  of  fashion  and  pleasure,  why  should  I  disturb 
her  peace,  or  shape  her  destiny  along  a  darker  or  an  hum- 
bler path  ?  No,  sweet  girl !  be  still  above  me.  I  will 
think  of  you — love  you,  as  I  hope  you  will  be  loved  by 
others  ;  but  see  you  again — never  !" 

Two  or  three  years  made  Marion  a  wife  and  a  mother. 
As  Charles  had  predicted,  a  gentleman  of  immense  wealth 


76  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

succeeded,  "with  the  aid  of  her  father,  in  obtaining  her 
hand.  It  was  said  she  lived  contentedly,  and  found,  in 
the  aftection  of  her  boy,  a  joy  almost  enough  to  compen- 
sate her  for  all  worldly  disappointments.  Charles,  too,  in 
the  interests  of  his  business,  ceased  to  experience  the  an- 
guish which  he  had  once  felt,  and  his  passion  for  the  re- 
membered object  now  lost  to  his  hope,  slept  quietly  in  his 
bosom,  except  when  awakened  by  some  of  those  inci- 
dental associations  which  link  us  so  mysteriously  with  the 
dim  world  of  past  scenes  and  feelings. 

While  his  own  character  thus  went  on  with  little  change, 
his  business  prospered.  He  grew  more  useful  to  the  firm 
in  which  he  had  commenced  his  commercial  labors,  and 
was  at  length  appointed  to  sail  as  supercargo  to  the  East 
Indies,  with  a  probability  of  remaining  there  in  a  lucrative 
situation  several  years. 

A  few  days  before  his  departure  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  the  distress  of  a  lost  child,  whose  extreme 
beauty  excited  much  notice.  To  an  inquiry  as  to  his  name 
the  child  gave  that  of  the  husband  of  Marion.  Charles 
took  the  hand  of  the  little  wanderer,  who  looked  up  to  him 
confidingly,  and  revealed  the  same  features  which  for 
years  had  floated  in  his  imagination ;  the  same  speaking 
forehead  and  transparent  complexion,  the  same  blue  eyes, 
through  which  streamed  the  light  of  feeling,  and  the  rosy 
mouth  of  nameless  SAveetness.  With  a  sudden  resolution 
to  see  once  more  the  mother  of  this  fair  boy,  he  ofl'ered  to 
conduct  him  home,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  lie  found  him- 
self in  the  parlor  of  her  mansion,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  being  wIjo,  of  all  others  on  earth,  was  dearest  to  liis 
lieart  She  recognized  him  instantly,  and  whether  from 
the  joy  of  recovering  her  child,  whose  absence  had  occa- 
sioned her  mucli  alarm,  or  whether  from  surprise,  or  any 


DESTINY.  ''"^ 

other  feeling,  at  beholding  one  who  had  so  long  been  a 
stranger  to  her  sight,  her  face  was  suddenly  suffused  with 
a  crimson,  which  passed  as  rapidly  away,  and  left  her  pale 
as  a  marble  statue. 

"  I  have  brought  home  your  boy,  madam,"  said  Charles, 
in  a  low  tone ;  for  his  eyes  were  moist  and  his  voice  fal- 
tered. "  I  am  very  happy  in  this  opportunity  to  meet  you 
once  more,  Mrs.  Sterling." 

"  You  are  welcome,  Mr.  Wilson,"  said  Marion,  while 
her  boy  clinibed  into  her  lap,  and  hid  his  face  in  her  bo- 
som. "  I  have  been  much  frightened — I  have  not  yet  re- 
covered from  my  alarm ;  but  you  will  excuse  my  embar- 
rassment, for — "  She  stopped,  cast  down  her  eyes, 
raised  them  again,  filled  with  tears,  and  folded  the  boy  in 
her  arms  with  a  feeling  for  which  she  found  no  utter- 
ance. 

There  was  something  in  this  silence  more  expressive 
than  words.  The  idea  that  he  had  been  loved  flashed 
upon  him  with  singular  force,  and  called  up  all  the  tumvil- 
tuous  crowd  of  sensations  which  he  had  long  since  deemed 
overcome.  She  recovered  herself  immediately,  and  spoke 
in  her  natural  manner. 

"  You  have  been  quite  a  stranger,  sir ;  I  did  not  antici- 
pate the  pleasure  of  ever  seeing  you  again." 

"It  was  only  accident,"  replied  Charles,  "which 
brought  me  to  your  presence  ;  but  if  an  unwelcome  guest, 
I  have  committed  a  fault  which  I  cannot  repeat,  as  I  leave 
this  country  in  a  few  days — perhaps  forever." 

He  gazed  steadily  at  her  as  he  spoke.  The  tears  again 
arose  into  her  eyes,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale  again.  An 
irresistible  impulse,  strengthened  with  rapture  and  melan- 
choly at  the  conviction  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  his 
previous  opinion  of  her,  urged  him  to  take  her  hand.    He 


78  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

pressed  it  unresisting  to  his  lips,  and,  thrown  off  his  guard, 
his  agitated  feelings  found  their  way  in  words,  from  a 
heart  in  which,  for  the  moment,  the  rising  tide  of  passion 
Avas  swollen  to  overflow. 

"  I  have  loved  you,  Marion,  but  we  part  forever." 

The  hand,  linked  in  his,  half  confirmed  its  pressure.  It 
revealed  to  him  the  history  of  her  life.  She  attempted  to 
rise,  but  he  interrupted  her. 

"  One  moment  more — one  moment  more.  I  ask  but 
one  single  look,  to  bear  with  me  in  my  recoUectipn  over  the 
loneliness  of  distant  places,  and  through  the  gloom  of  fu- 
ture years.  Fate  has  decreed  I  shall  never  see  you  on 
earth  again ;  but  if,  in  the  revolution  of  time,  you  should 
want  a  friend,  remember  me." 

Once  more  he  pressed  to  his  lips  her  passive  hand ; 
once  more  trazed  on  her — now  dearer  than  she  had  ever 
been  before — then,  starting  at  the  situation  into  which  this 
singular  occurrence  had  betrayed  him,  he  caught  one 
glance  from  her  thrillingly  beautiful  eyes,  and  was  the 
next  moment  Avandering  he  scarcely  knew  whither,  among 
the  careless  and  busy  multitude  that  thronged  the  streets. 
It  all  seemed  to  him  like  a  dream. 

It  was  fifteen  years  after  this  incident,  that  a  stately 
vessel,  with  her  snowy  sails  spread  out  like  wings,  was 
borne  by  a  fresh  breeze  into  the  harbor  of  New  York.  A 
steamboat  was  in  readiness  to  convey  the  passengers  on 
shore,  and,  as  tliey  landed  at  Whitehall,  and  rattled  away 
in  their  respective  carriages  to  the  hotels  or  other  places 
where  they  intended  to  reside,  a  single  individual,  having 
consigned  his  baggage  to  the  care  of  a  porter,  Avalked  with 
a  steady  pace  up  Broadway. 

It  was  a  fine  evening  in  summer.  All  the  beauty  of  the 
c.il y  seemed  gliding  to  and   fio  along  tlu'  spK-nilid  jh-omio- 


DESTINY.  79 

nade.  Carriages  and  horses  daslied  by.  The  boys  were 
playmg  along  the  streets,  and  many  sweet  faces  passed 
him,  all  lighted  up  with  health  and  pleasure,  careless  of 
the  future  and  unconscious  of  the  past.  As  Charles  gazed 
at  and  admired  this  new  generation,  that  had  sprung  up 
around  him  as  if  by  magic,  he  could  not  but  recall  the 
days  long  gone  by.  He  still  remembered  when  Miss  Ber- 
tine,  radiant  with  charms  and  mirth,  moved  over  these 
very  pavements,  the  delight  of  every  eye,  and  the  idol  of 
his  heart.  Strange  emotions  filled  his  breast  as  he  ap- 
proached her  dwelling.  It  looked  the  same  as  when  he 
used  to  walk  by  it  and  bless  it,  in  his  rambles,  when  the 
moon  was  shining,  and  the  large  stars  twinkling  in  the 
shadowy  vault  of  heaven.  The  same  moon  was  there, 
and  the  stars  were  yet  as  brilliant,  for  nature  never  grows 
old.  Everything  wore  the  aspect  of  other  years,  as  if  it 
were  but  yesterday  that  he  had  parted  from  her,  and  he 
were  now  hastening  again,  his  heart  quick  beating  with 
hope  and  joy,  to  revel  in  the  luxury  of  being  with  her. 
There  was  a  large  tree  before  the  door.  He  remembered 
the  night — ^just  such  a  cloudless  and  happy  time  as  the 
present — when  he  had  leaned  against  that  very  tree,  and 
listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  one  whose  music  thrilled 
through  him  like  a  voice  from  heaven. 

"  And  now,"  thought  he,  "  years  and  years  have  fled  ; 
and  thousands,  once  moving  in  joy  and  pride  through  these 
streets,  are  gone  !  I  myself  am  a  stranger — unknown,  un- 
loved. What  may  be  her  fate?  Perchance  she  too  has 
passed  away  !  or,  if  she  remain,  it  will  be  to  behold  me  in 
possession  of  wealth ;  alas !  how  valueless,  when  not 
shared  with  her  !  How  wayward  is  destiny  !  My  heart 
prompted  me  ever,  and  yet  whispers,  that  with  her,  any 
humble  cottage  would  have  been  a  paradise ;  yet  I  have 


80  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

wasted  my  precious  life  in  gloomy  solitude,  to  acquire  the 
heartless,  petty  distinction  which  wealth  confers,  and 
which  is  the  cause  of  all  my  disappointment." 

He  reached  the  door,  and  was  surprised  to  find  the 
mansion  had  been  converted  into  a  hotel.  How  singularly 
independent  of  reason  are  those  we  call  the  fine  feehngs ! 
He  owned  a  pang  at  the  sight  of  strangers  moving  care- 
lessly through  the  rooms  where  he  had  long  ago  enjoyed 
so  many  hours  of  happiness ;  and  there  was  a  sternness 
in  his  manner  of  addressing  an  old  man  who  seemed  to  be 
at  home  in  the  transaction  of  domestic  duties. 
"  Who  keeps  this  hotel,  sir?" 

"  Mr.  D ,"  was  the  answer. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  the  building  was  inhabited  by 
Mr.  Bertine?"  ^> 

"  Ten  or  twelve  years,  sir.  Old  Bertine  failed,  and 
died  long  ago.  I  believe  the  whole  family  are  dead,  or 
gone  off  to  some  distant  country.  We  know  nothing  of 
them  here." 

"  He  left  a  daughter  who  married  a  Mr.  Sterling.  Can 
you  afford  me  any  information  of  that  gentleman  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  man  ;  "  there's  no  harm  in  speak- 
ing now,  the  poor  fellow's  dead.  He  was  a  hard  chap, 
that  Sterling — and  unless  he  was  some  particular  friend  of 
yours,  sir,  I  should  call  him  a  great  villain." 
"  Villain,  sir  !  how  ? — in  what  way  ?" 
"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  he  came  here  and  made  a  fine 
show  ;  every  body  thought  him  worth  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  at  least.  He  married  old  Bertine's  daughter — Sa- 
rah, or  Julia,  or  Marion — yes,  Marion  Bertine ;  as  fine  a 
girl  as  ever  trod  shoe-leather." 

"Well,  well,  sir,  the  event,  quick !" 

"  Well.     He  spent  her  fortune — failed — almost  killed 


DESTINY.  81 

his  wife  with  unkindness,  and  died  himself  a  poor  misera- 
ble drunkard.  His  broken-hearted  widow  lingered  a  ht- 
tie — but,  what's  the  matter,  sir  ?  you  are  sick.  Let  me 
give  you  some  wine — help  yourself,  sir — it's  as  good  old 
port  as  you  ever  drank — fill  your  glass." 

"No,  no — no  wine,"  said  Charles,  in  a  voice  choked 
with  emotion..    "Goon — it  is  nothing." 

"  Why— that's  all,  sir." 

"  But  there  was  a  boy  ?" 

"  So  there  was  ;  I  had  forgotten.  Yes,  there  was  a 
boy — Charles,  I  think  they  call  him." 

"  Was — was  his  name  Charles  ?  Are  you  sure  that  was 
his  name  ? 

"  Why,  yes.  I  am  sure  it  was.  He's  somewhere  about 
the  city  now,  I  guess.  I  can't  tell  you  where.  Pray,  sir, 
help  yourself  to  some  wine.  I  hope  I  have  not — perhaps 
you  are  a  relation  ?     I  am  sorry  I  have  spoken  so  freely." 

Wilson  rushed  from  the  house.  We  shall  not  attempt 
to  define  his  feelings. 

A  few  days  after  the  preceding  conversation,  Wilson 
rose  early  and  wandered  forth  alone.  There  are  some 
men  who,  in  the  traffick  of  business,  become  hardened 
against  the  influence  of  their  earlier  feelings.  Time  and 
circumstances  remould  their  characters,  and  wear  away 
from  their  minds  the  impressions  of  inexperience  and 
youth.  They  attach  importance  to  objects  only  as  they 
relate  to  their  present  or  future  interests,  and  find  nothing 
of  the  past  to  cherish  or  regret.  Others,  on  the  contrary, 
look  back  upon  the  distant  scenes  of  their  boyhood,  with 
sensations  which  become  richer  and  more  delightful  as 
they  advance  in  age.  The  occurrences  around  them  are 
devoid  of  every  value,  when  compared  with  those  which 
have  fled  away  forever,  and  they  treasure  up  undisturbed 
5 


82  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

in  the  depths  of  their  hearts,  tastes  for  pleasures  they  can 
no  longer  enjoy,  and  affections  for  objects  which  have 
passed  irrevocably  away.  Wilson  was  of  the  latter  class. 
Although  he  had  been  absent  for  years,  and  mingled  in 
remote  society,  and  engaged  in  adventures  which  had  no- 
thing in  them  to  keep  alive  his  associations,  yet,  as  he 
went  forth  on  this  lovely  morning,  perhaps  his  sensations 
were  as  lively  while  dwelling  on  the  incidents  of  long  van- 
ished time,  as  if  he  had  but  lecently  heard  the  well  re- 
membered voice  he  best  loved,  and  felt  the  gentle  pressure 
of  the  hand  Avhose  touch  thrilled  through  him  with  a 
strange  rapture  which  had  never  been  repeated  or  forgot- 
ten. A  short  walk  brought  him  to  a  rich  grassy  meadow, 
overshadowed  by  many  large  trees  in  full  foliage,  and  used 
as  a  place  of  sepulture.  It  was  yet  early,  and  the  silence 
of  the  dead  was  unbroken  but  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
step,  and  the  warblings  of  a  bright  bird,  that,  careless  of 
human  woe,  sat  pluming  its  golden  feathers  upon  a  sunny 
branch,  and  filled  the  air  with  ever  varying  and  delicious 
music. 

As  he  walked  among  the  graves  of  the  imknown,  and 
perchance  long-forgotten  beings  around,  and  read  inscrip- 
tions of  names  first  noticed  above  their  moulderinof  re- 
mains,  the  fleetness  and  vanity  of  life  chilled  his  heart,  and 
pity  for  the  crowd  who  slumbered  beneath  his  feet,  once 
radiant  with  hope  and  health,  and,  perhaps,  beautiful  as 
she  over  whose  tomb  he  came  now  to  mourn.  The  di- 
rection which  he  had  received  soon  guided  him  to  the 
wished-for  spot.  It  was  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  mea- 
dow, upon  a  green  hill  that  sloped  gently  to  the  morning 
sun.  Long  grass,  bent  down  with  heavy  dew-drops,  grow 
upon  the  turf,  beneath  which  rested  one,  witliout  whom 
the  clear  light,  and  the  fragrant  air,  uiul  all  the  charms  of 


DESTINY.  83 

life,  were  to  him  scarcely  preferable  to  the  shadows  that 
hid  her  own  once  lovely  and  beloved  image.  A  plain  slab 
of  white  marble  met  his  eyes.  It  bore  simply  the  name 
of  "Marion  Sterling."  As  he  stopped  by  the  mound 
which  weighed  upon  the  bosom  once  so  fraught  wuh  pure 
and  happy  affections,  his  grief  mastered  the  manliness  of 
age  and  experience  ;  and  tears  dropped  down  upon  the  un- 
conscious grass,  unlieeded  by  her  for  whom  they  fell. 
"  Dear,  dear  Marion  !"  broke  from  his  lips. 

It  was  all  that  found  utterance.  The  rest  of  his  heavy 
feelings  sunk  down  into  the  recesses  of  his  heart,  buried  in 
silence  and  too  deep  for  language.  A  slight  noise  arrested 
his  attention.  He  lifted  up  his  eyes  toward  a  youth  whose 
features  bore  so  striking  a  resemblance  to  her  who  then 
filled  his  thoughts,  that,  in  the  excited  state  of  his  imagi- 
nation, he  startled  with  a  doubt  of  their  reality.  He  was, 
however,  recalled  to  his  reason  by  the  voice  in  which  the 
stranger  addressed  him. 

"  You  knew  my  mother,  sir  ?" 

"  Your  mother  !  Was  Mrs.  Sterling  your  mother  ? 
Then  I  speak  to  Charles  Sterling,"  and  he  seized  his  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  That  is  indeed  my  name,"  replied  the  youth,  with  some 
surprise.  "  May  I  inquire  who  it  is  that  seems  so  much 
interested  in  our  unfortunate  family,  and  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  one  whom  certainly  he  never  could  have 
seen  before  ?" 

"  First  tell  me,"  asked  Wilson,  whom  this  singular  co- 
incidence had,  in  some  measure,  diverted  from  his  melan- 
choly train  of  meditations,  "  do  you  apply  the  term  un- 
fortunate to  your  present  situation  or  your  past  history  ?" 

"  To  both,"  said  the  youth.  "  My  mother's  fate  seemed 
equalled  in  misery  only  by  mine.     She  died  of  a  broken 


84  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

heart,  and  I  see  little  more  remaining  for  me.  My  friends, 
out  of  the  wreck  of  our  family  fortunes,  saved  only  suffi- 
cient to  complete  my  education.  I  have  endeavored  in 
vain  to  procure  occupation  here,  and  sliall  embark  in  a 
week  for  a  distant  clime,  perhaps  never  to  return.  The 
station  to  which  I  am  ordered  is  sickly,  and  I  have  a  pre- 
sentiment that  I  am  bidding  my  nativ^e  country  farewell 
forever.  It  was  with  these  forebodinors  that  I  came  to 
visit  my  mother's  grave.  Thank  heaven,  she  rests  in 
peace,  ignorant  of  the  anguish  that  agitates  my  bosom." 

"  But  why  so  much  anguish,"  inquired  Wilson,  "  in  go- 
ing abroad  to  seek  your  fortune  in  the  great  world  ? 
Thousands  have  done  so,  and  returned  with  wealth  and 
honor.     But,  perhaps  you  have  relations  ?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  none  for  whom  I  have  any  affection." 

"  Friends,  perhaps  ?" 

"  I  have  a  friend" — 

He  stopped.  A  slight  glow  came  over  his  face.  It 
passed  away,  and  left  his  features  pale  and  firm.  Wilson 
thought  he  looked  strangely  like  his  mother. 

"It  is  foolish  to  speak  of  it,"  he  continued;  "but  I 
have  nothing  to  conceal.  I  love,  no  matter  how  deeply, 
one  who  is  rich  and  above  me.  It  were  vain  and  cruel  to 
make  her  share  my  poverty.  I  shall  see  her  once  again, 
for  the  last  time.  But  may  I  know  why  you  interest 
yourself  thus  in  my  behalf?" 

"You  shall  know,  indeed.  I  am  under  hea\y  obliga- 
tions to  your  mother.  My  name  is*  Wilson.  You  may 
have  heard  her  speak  of  me" — 

"  Wilson  ?"  interrupted  Sterling,  "Charles  Wilson,  from 
the  East  Indies  ?" 

"  The  same." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed    Sterling,   all   his    features 


DESTINY.  85 

lighted  up  with  surprise  and  joy  ;  "  indeed  I  have  heard 
of  you.  My  mother  gave  me  a  letter  upon  her  death-bed, 
charging  me,  if  ever  I  should  meet  you,  to  give  it  into  your 
own  hands.  I  have  this  morning  accidentally  taken  it 
from  my  drawer,  as  I  was  arranging  my  things  for  sea. 
It  is  here." 

Wilson  seized  it,  with  a  reeling  brain.  It  was  faintly 
and  tremblingly  traced ;  and  contained  a  small  curl  of 
hair,  with  these  word§  : 

"  You  bade  me,  when  last  we  parted,  if  ever  I  wished 
a  friend,  to  remember  you.  The  world  is  changed  much 
since  that  night  when  I  woimded  your  feelings  at  my  fa- 
ther's house,  by  a  feigned  indifference.  It  avails  little 
now  that  I  am  willing  to  confess  it.  My  husband  is  dead  ; 
my  fortune  spent ;  when  you  read  this,  I  myself  shall  be 
in  my  grave.  There  remains,  therefore,  no  reason  for  me 
to  deny,  that  from  the  moment  I  saw,  I  loved  you.  For- 
give me — be  a  friend  to  my  boy — heaven  bless  you  ! 

"  Marion." 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  continue  the  narrative.  Ster- 
ling was  Wilson's  heir. 


NIAGARA. 

AFTER      LOOKING      AT      A      PICTURE 


BY       MRS.      E.      A.      C.      HULCE. 


EoLL  on,  Niagara!  speak  in  thunder  tones 

Of  Him  who  made  thee  great !     Thou  dost  befit 

Thy  stern  companions — the  eternal  hills, 

The  all-blazing  arch  that  nightly  o'er  thee  bends, 

Its  gentler  blue  caressing  thee  by  day. 

What  is  thy  music  like  ?    The  knell  of  Time 

Against  Eternity's  all-shoreless  sea  ! 

What  thoughts  do  thy  dread  hymns  bring  forth  to  man  ? 

Thy  never-ending  chants  that  awe  the  soul, 

Rolling  in  one  unbroken  cadence  forth 

Since  first  "  the  morninq;-stars  together  sano- !" 

Thoughts  of  the  ocean — dirge  of  elder  Time, 

When  the  deep  founts  were  broken ;  thoughts  of  winds 

Whose  organ-swell  sweeps  o'er  Norwegian  pines. 

With  the  loud  forest  anthems  ;  most  of  all 

Thou  bringest  thoughts  of  Him  who  staid  thee  here  ! 

Thou  art  meet  workmanship  of  His  high  hand  ! 

Seal  of  thy  Architect's  omnipotence  ! 

(How  do  we  vaunt  man's  little  genius  forth, 

That  hath  suspended  domes  to  regal  piles  ; 

Blind  to  the  jewelled  dome  above  our  heads.) 

Will  puny  man,  that  cannot  form  a  fly. 

E'en  compass  half  the  world  to  gaze  on  thee. 

And  on  thy  page  read  not  Jehovah's  name  ? 

An  infidel  nlust  blush  to  look  on  thee. 


NIAGARA.  87 

An  atheist,  having  eye,  and  ear,  and  thought, 
Sure  cannot  be  !     What  is  an  atheist,  then  ? 
One,  credulous  in  crude  absurdities  ; 
Who  can  beheve  in  all  things,  save  in  God ! 

One — he  who  dwelt  the  Arno's  wave  beside, 

Of  late  there  was  ;  but  he  must  have  a  shrine ! 

A  fervent  worshipper,  this  fancy's  child  ! 

No  zealous  puritan  more  lowly  knelt ; 

But  at  the  opening  porch — the  vestibule — 

The  very  threshold  of  great  Nature's  temple, 

He  stopped  and  offered  incense  ;  sated  there, 

He  saw  not  God,  yet  deified  His  works  ; 

A  spiritual  materiahsm — perchance, 

Refined  and  subtle  theory,  gross  in  deed ; 

Such  Rousseau,  Shelley,  priests  of  Nature's  creed  ; 

Strange  thus  to  stop  at  matter  for  a  God  ! 

And  they  who  boast  the  whole  world's  treasured  lore, 

Find  but  the  faith  that  the  poor  pag  an  claims ! 

Oh  !  lofty,  boastful  man  !  thou  shouldst  have  power 

To  strive  with  death  and  gain  the  mastery  ! 

Thou'rt  not  so  weak  as  to  require  His  aid. 

Who  holds  creation's  pillars  in  His  hand  ! 

Sufficient  in  thyself,  thou  needest  not 

Pluck  from  the  Tree  of  Life  a  deathless  boon ! 

These  are  thy  thoughts,  Niagara !  to  me  ; 
Thy  shadowy  image,  thy  faint  likeness  here. 
Which  the  school-miss  so  ruthlessly  invades, 
That  I  may  well  believe  its  semblance  dim. 
Fills  me  with  envy  to  behold  thyself  ! 
To  let  thy  solemn  beauty  wrap  my  soul ! 


'« 


THE    COVENANT    OF    HEARTS 


BT     MBS.     DUMONT. 


"  How  gentle  is  the  death  of  the  Christian !"  thought 
Henry  Arville,  as  he  wiped  the  gathering  dews  from  the 
cold  forehead  of  his  dying  mother.  Disease  had  rioted  on 
her  form  with  hngering  triumph,  and  her  free  spirit  had 
struggled  long  with  the  fetters  of  mortality.  These  fetters 
were  at  length  dissolving,  and  the  images  of  beatitude 
already  floated  in  her  tranced  vision.  Henry,  who  had 
witnessed  the  slow  wasting  of  life  with  wordless  agony,  re- 
joiced that  the  conflict  was  about  to  cease — rejoiced,  did  I 
say  ? — the  language  of  earth  has  no  name  for  the  feelings 
of  the  mourner,  when  the  bitterness  of  individual  desola- 
tion is  mingled  with  the  assurance  of  consummated  happi- 
ness for  the  lost  object  of  aff"ection.  Henry  had  long  known 
that  the  spirit  of  his  mother  held  slight  communion  with 
the  things  of  time — that,  like  the  weary  traveller,  whose 
days  of  journeying  aie  numbered,  she  lost  the  passing  re- 
alities of  the  present  in  deej)  and  exquisite  visions  of  ap- 
proaching home.  Aspiring  to  a  higher  and  more  peima- 
nent  union,  even  the  imperishable  ties  of  maternal  love  had 
ceased  to  bind  her  to  life  ;  and  the  prayer  that  went  up  in 
secret  for  the  child  of  her  liopes,  embraced  not  the  objects 
of  decay.  Her  faded  features  were  now  lighted  up  with 
an  unimaginable  glow,  like  the  reflection  of  light  on  the 
wliite  folds  of  a  stainless  cloud — and  wlion  that  i^low  liad 


THE     COVENANT     OF     HEARTS. 


89 


passed  into  the  fixed  serenity  of  death,  Henry  forgot  for  a 
brief  season  that  he  was  yet  left  a  habitant  of  the  lonely 
earth.  Few,  however,  are  the  souls  that  always  hold  com- 
munion with  high  and  holy  thought — young  hearts  are 
bound  to  life  with  sinuous  chords  ;  though  lured  for  a  time 
beyond  its  delusive  influence,  they  are  again  drawn  back 
to  wrestle  with  its  phantoms.  When  he  had  seen  the 
form  of  his  beloved  mother  consigned  as  dust  to  dust,  he 
then  felt  the  deep  desolation  of  the  grave.  The  apart- 
ments hitherto  gladdened  by  the  light  of  her  smile,  were 
now  fearfully  void.  He  gazed  on  the  vacant  seat,  and  a 
cold  shuddering  convulsion  of  the  heart  passed  over  him. 
There  were  voices  near  him,  but  they  came  not  on  his  ear 
in  the  soft  tones  of  affection — and  busy  forms  flitting 
around  him — but  he  vainly  sought  the  glance  of  a  mother's 
love.  Nay,  the  presence  of  a  father  for  a  moment  called 
forth  the  trust  of  filial  affection,  but  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  the  manner  of  that  father,  even  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  came  with  a  sacrilegioiis  dissonance  over  the  chords 
of  sorrow.  Henry  felt  that  he  mourned  alone — that  even 
at  this  hour  of  mutual  bereavement,  the  soul  of  his  survi- 
ving parent  had  no  affinity  with  his.  The  conviction  was 
intensely  painful ;  he  shrunk  from  a  presence  that  thus 
chilled  the  gushings  of  tenderness,  and  shuddered  lest  he 
should  forget  the  respect  due  the  author  of  his  being. 
His  health,  already  impaired  by  long  confinement,  gradu- 
ally sunk  under  the  influence  of  a  morbid  excitability ; 
and  desirous  of  rousing  himself  to  exertion,  he  sought  and 
obtained  permission  for  a  tour  through  the  distant  States. 

Arriving  at  a  small  village  in he  found  himself,  for 

some  days,  unable  to  proceed.     A  slow  fever  had  seized 
his  frame,  and  forbade  farther  fatio-ue.     He  lodcred  at  an 
inn  in  the  village,  and  sometimes  amused  himself,  as  a  re- 
5* 


90  T  II  E     M  O  S  S  -  R  O  S  E  . 

laxation  from  thought,  with  the  children  of  the  family. 
The  day  consecrated  to  devotion  had  arrived,  and  they 
prepared  for  their  Sabbath-school.     Even  the  playfulness 
of   the  children  was  now  chastened  with   something   of  a 
holy  cast,  as  the  little  group  approached  Henry  and  beg- 
ged him  to  hear  their  exercises.     "  Will   you  not  go  with 
us?"  said  the  yoimgest;  and,  unable  to  resist  the  artless 
appeal,  our  invalid  immediately  accompanied  them.    A  few 
only  were  as  yet  assembled,  but  the  attention  of  Henry 
was  at  once  riveted  by  the  young  and  lovely  teacher. 
Her  dress  resembling,  in  its  exquisite  simplicity,  the  purest 
blossoms  of  spring,  revealed  a  form  of  perfect  and  delicate 
proportions.      Her  features,   though    regular,  were  of  a 
marked  and  decided  character.     She  was  pale,  but  that 
paleness,  contrasted  with  the  deep  shade  of  her  dark  and 
shining  hair,  and  the  long  silken  lashes  that  partially  veiled 
the  light  of  her  clear  blue  eye,  gave  a  yet   stronger  inte- 
rest to  a  countenance  of  unearthly  beauty.     As  the  youth- 
ful flock  dropped  in,  one  by  one,  her  features  assumed  an 
anxious  expression,  and  she  watched   their  entrance  with 
evident  intensity.     Two  lovely  children  at  length  entered, 
hand  in  hand.     A  sudden  flush  now  tinged  her  cheek,  a 
smile,  a  glance  of  unutterable  import,  welcomed  the  little 
strano-ers.     They  approached  and  flung  their  arms  silently 
around  her  neck.     There  was  no  sound,  not  even  a  breath 
to  break  the  deep  quiet  of  the  school — but  to  the  soul  of 
Henry  there  was  something  in  this  simple  scene  that  spoke 
a  language   of  high  and  sacred  feeling.     The  interesting 
teacher  commenced  her  labors,  and  the  soft  melody  of  her 
voice  gave  a  peculiar  pathos  to  the  accents  of  instruction. 
At  length,  addrest^ing  the  children,  whose  fate  was  appa- 
rently concerned  with  her  own,  she   reipiired   their  tasks. 
"  We  have  learned  the  Orphan's  Hymn,"  they  replied ; 


THE  COVENANT  OF  HEARTS.      91 

and  the  youngest,  instinctively  folding  her  little  hands,  re- 
peated : 

"  Oh  thou  !  who  hearest  the  raven's  cry, 
And  mark'st  the  sparrow's  fall — 
Wilt  thou  not  hear,  from  tliy  far  blue  sky, 
The  orphan's  bitter  call  ? 

The  grave  our  hearts  has  forever  barred 

From  the  deepest  love  of  earth — 
But  we  come,  in  our  need,  to  thee,  oh  Lord ! 

Who  gave  our  spirits  birth. 

The  tones  that  have  soothed  our  wants  are  still — 

But  we  wait  thy  still  small  voice — 
And  our  hearts,  though  gloomy,  and  low,  and  chill, 

In  thy  light  may  yet  rejoice. 

For  a  shield,  from  the  storms  of  our  future  path, 

To  thee,  in  trust,  we  come ; 
Preserve  us,  Lord,  from  their  fearful  scath, 

And  fit  us  for  thy  high  home!" 

As  the  child  proceeded,  the  young  woman  raised  her 
downcast  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  mentally  sharing  the  prayer. 
For  a  moment  a  tear  trembled  on  her  lashes — the  next  it 
had  passed  away  like  an  exhaled  dew-drop,  and  the  light 
of  holy  trust  rested  on  her  features  in  its  stead.  Henry 
left  the  scene  with  impressions  never  to  be  effaced.  As 
he  walked  thoughtfully  back  to  the  inn,  he  was  joined  by 
the  village  pastor,  who  had  closed  with  prayer  the  exer- 
cises of  the  school.  Hearts  of  the  same  tone  blend  at 
once  like  corresponding  music.  The  attenuated  form  of 
young  Arville,  his  interesting  countenance,  deeply  marked 
with  melancholy  thought,  all  were  calculated  to  awaken 
an  immediate  interest  in  the  heart  of  the  benevolent 
Harley. 


I    92  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  I  fear,"  said  the  venerable  old  man,  as  they  at  length 
separated,  "  I  fear  that  an  inn  can  scarcely  afford  you  the 
quiet  so  necessary  to  an  invalid — your  society  would  be  a 
most  welcome  accession  to  ray  small  family  circle  ;  come 
then  and  stay  with  us  till  returning  health  enables  you  to 
proceed." 

Henry  might  have  hesitated,  but  the  half-formed  scru- 
ples of  delicacy  were  at  once  obviated  by  the  manner  of 
Mr.  Harley ;  and  early  on  the  following  day  he  became  an 
inmate  of  a  house  peculiarly  fitted  as  a  sanctuary  for  bro- 
ken hearts.  It  was  the  mansion  of  peace,  of  piety,  of  love 
— a  scene  of  holy  quietude,  where  the  spirit  of  its  inhabit- 
ants might  hold  a  bright  and  continual  Sabbath.  Henry 
was  received  by  Mr.  Harley  in  his  study.  Reserve  was 
banished — they  conversed  with  the  freedom  of  friends. 
The  scene  of  the  Sabbath-school  was  adverted  to,  and 
Henry  spoke  of  its  young  and  interesting  teacher.  "  She 
is  an  orphan,"  replied  Mr.  Harley  to  his  implied  inquiries ; 
"  and  the  little  girls  that  clung  so  fondly  around  her  are 
her  sisters.  They  lost  their  parents  while  Malvina,  tlie 
eldest,  was  yet  a  mere  child,  but  even  then  she  seemed  to 
assume  the  high  duties  of  a  mother.  They  were  left  ex- 
posed to  all  the  ills  of  penury.  Their  father's  little  pro- 
perty was  utterly  Avasted  away  by  the  unavoidable  expen- 
ditures of  a  long — long  illness,  lie  had,  however,  in  his 
better  days  been  the  friend  of  the  unfortunate,  and  the 
bread  he  had  cast  upon  the  waters,  was  found  by  his  or- 
phan children  in  the  hour  of  their  extremity.  The  two 
younger  were  taken  into  separate  families,  and  cherished 
with  all  the  tenderness  their  various  circumstances  allowed. 
Malvina  meanwhile  had  already  evinced  an  energy  of  cliar- 
acter  that  annulled  the  intended  humanity  of  proffered 
protection.     She  became  a  member  of  my  family,  but,  in 


THE   COVENANT  OF  HEARTS.       93 

receiving  her,  I  only  added  a  tivaiure  to  my  household. 
Her  habits  of  industry — her  intuitive  skill  in  all  the  vari- 
ous branches  of  domestic  usefulness — her  powers  of  mind 
— her  gentleness — her  piety — must  have  rendered  her  a 
welcome  inmate  in  the  dwellincr  of  avarice.  Her  sorrows 
were  deep ;  the  affections  of  her  heart  rolled  silently  in- 
deed, but  with  a  measui-eless  depth,  and  no  longer  divided 
by  the  several  relations  of  life,  they  were  drawn  exclu- 
sively to  her  sisters.  She  felt  their  desolation  more 
strongly  than  her  own,  and  wailed  their  severance  from 
each  other  more  deeply  than  the  stroke  that  had  unavoid- 
ably separated  them.  Yet  she  mourned  in  silence,  and  a 
slight  observer  would  have  thought  her  perfectly  happy. 
Joyfully  would  I  also  have  taken  the  bereaved  little  ones 
beneath  my  roof,  but  the  small  salary  afforded  by  a  needy 
flock  sets  but  narrow  limits  to  the  offices  of  humanity. 
As  time  rolled  on,  the  industry  of  Malvina  enabled  her  to 
add  something  to  their  support ;  meanwhile  she  sought 
every  measure  of  forming  their  young  minds  to  virtue,  and 
devised  various  means  of  instructing  them,  without  lessen- 
ing the  little  services  which  they  owed  their  kind  protec- 
tors. She  became  an  active  agent  in  the  establishment  of 
a  Sabbath-school,  and  has  since  continued  unwearied  in 
the  performance  of  its  sacred  duties.  Absorbed,  however, 
as  is  every  recollection  of  herself  in  the  deep  solicitude  of 
the  sister,  she  neglects  no  offices  Avhich  my  family  might 
claim,  were  she  bound  to  us  by  the  strongest  ties  of  kin- 
dred, love,  and  gratitude.  To  Mrs.  Harley  and  myself  she 
supplies  the  place  of  an  affectionate  child ;  and,  indeed, 
her  filial  tenderness  is  the  solace  of  all  our  domestic  cares. 
Were  her  strength  of  earth,  she  must  prematurely  sink 
beneath  the  intensity  of  exertion — but  I  trust  in  her  sup- 
port, for  it  is  the  strength  of  Omnipotence." 


94  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Henry  heard  this  little  tale  with  deep  interest ;  and 
when,  a  short  time  afterwards,  he  was  presented  to  Mal- 
vina,  he  beheld  her  with  those  high  and  exquisite  emo- 
tions, that  an  evening  sky,  radiant  with  light  and  beauty, 
awakens  in  the  soul  of  feeling. 

"  So  young,"  thought  Arville,  as  he  gazed  at  her  mild 
but  pensive  countenance,  "  so  young,  and  yet  so  settled  in 
the  practice  of  virtue !"  and  as  if  his  soul  was  already 
familiar  with  exalted  sentiment,  he  felt  himself  still  fur- 
ther purified  from  the  dross  of  human  frailty,  by  the  con- 
verse of  this  daughter  of  penury.  Their  spirits  were  in- 
deed congenial,  and  whether  they  chatted  on  the  light 
topics  of  the  day,  or  dwelt  on  the  high  interests  of  futuri- 
ty— whether  they  knelt  in  prayer,  or  lifted  up  their  voices 
in  the  evening  or  morning  hymn — the  same  tone  of  feeling 
was  awakened  in  either  heart.  A  week  passed  away,  and 
the  health  of  Arville  was  much  improved — a  second  was 
gone,  and  he  could  no  longer  claim  the  immunities  of  sick- 
ness. Pursued  he  then  his  journey  with  alacrity  ?  Far 
otherwise !  Feelings  of  mortality,  visions  of  earthly  ori- 
gin, had  at  length  mingled  with  the  pure  and  passionless 
homage  of  virtue.  The  evening  preceding  his  intended 
departure  passed  away  gloomily.  Malvina  was  absent, 
having  been  called  to  attend  her  youngest  sister,  who  was 
taken  suddenly  ill ;  and  Arville,  restless  and  dissatisfied 
with  himself,  stole  silently  away,  and  strolled  he  knew  not 
whither.  Passing  at  length  the  open  door  of  a  small  farm- 
house, he  beheld  the  form  of  Malvina.  His  whole  frame 
thrilled  with  emotion,  and  the  next  moment  he  stood  on 
the  threshold.  She  was  kneeling  beside  a  pallet,  and  was 
for  some  time  unconscious  of  his  approach.  Her  hair  had 
fallen  in  rich  masses  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  attitude 
developed  the  graceful  flexure  of  her  bending  figure.    Ar- 


THE   COVENANT  OF  HEARTS.       95 

ville  at  leno-th  uttered  her  name,  and  a  lancruid  smile 
crossed  her  features  at  beholding  him.  He  advanced,  and 
inquiring  for  the  little  sufferer,  learned  that  she  was  some- 
what better.  Still  he  lingered,  though  unbidden,  and  a 
long  silence  succeeded. 

Malvina,  absorbed  in  watching  the  slumbers  of  her  sis- 
ter, became  again  unconscious  of  every  other  object  ;  and 
while  she  gazed  at  the  pale  and  sunken  features  of  the 
child,  Henry  read  the  deep  conflict  of  her  heart  but  too 
well.  It  was  a  moment  of  uncontrollable  excitement.  He 
approached  her. 

"  Malvina,"  he  said,  "  pardon  this  abrupt  disclosure  of 
sentiments  I  can  no  longer  dissemble.  To  leave  you  thus 
is  impossible  ;  the  deep,  deep  interest  you  have  awakened 
in  my  soul,  renders  me  more  than  a  sharer  of  your  sor- 
rows. I  know  them  all — T  understand,  I  revere  the  source 
from  which  they  spring.  Suffer  me  then  to  look  forward 
to  the  period  when  I  may  in  some  degree  control  your  fu- 
ture fate — when  Malvina  and  her  orphan  sisters  shall  hav  e 
the  same  home,  the  same  guardian ;  when  it  shall  be  my 
task  to  render  that  home  the  seat  of  confidence  and  hap- 
piness— oh  !  deign  to  tell  me  if  I  may  cherish  this  hope  ; 
if  I  may  leave  you  but  to  seek  the  approval  of  my  father, 
and  return  to  receive  my  trust !" 

Henry  paused,  but  Malvina  seemed  unable  to  reply  ;  she 
pressed  her  hand  on  her  white  forehead,  and  her  delicate 
frame  trembled  with  emotion. 

"  Pardon  my  vehemence,"  continued  Henry  ;  "  I  would 
not  extort  the  promise  that  even  delicacy  alone  withheld. 
I  will  leave  you,  but  my  purpose  is  fixed.  To  Mr.  Harley, 
as  your  best  earthly  friend,  I  shall  immediately  appeal  for 
his  sanction  to  my  views,  and  then,  Malvina,  I  trust  to  ob- 
tain your  decision." 


96  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

He  rose,  but  Malvina  now  detained  him.  She  was 
deadly  pale,  and  there  were  traces  on  her  countenance  of 
some  strange  emotion,  resembling  the  last  movement  of 
troubled  waters  when  the  cause  that  ruffled  them  has  dis- 
appeared forever. 

"  Staj^"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  completely  calm  ; 
"I  may  not  suffer  you  to  go  under  the  influence  of  delu- 
sion. Gratefully  as  I  must  feel  the  high  distinction  you 
offer  me,  highly  as  I  value  your  friendship,  our  fates  can 
never  be  united." 

Henry  stood  motionless,  as  if  a  sudden  blight  had  passed 
over  hira.  There  was  a  solemnity  in  her  manner  that  car- 
ried the  conviction  of  an  irrevocable  sentence.  Caprice 
could  have  no  part  in  a  character  like  hers,  and  Henry  felt 
that  his  fate  was  sealed.  The  few  broken  and  passionate 
sentences  that  followed,  served  only  to  elicit  the  confirm- 
ation of  his  wretchedness.  The  dignity  of  his  character, 
however,  regained  its  ascendant,  and  that  tempest  of  feel- 
ing subsided.  He  took  tlie  hand  of  Malvina  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  Farewell,  lovely  and  amiable  girl !  I  go  to  forget  the 
visions  of  gladness  I  had  but  too  presumptuously  cher- 
ished, but  not  the  virtues  that  inspired  them.  I  shall 
treasure  up  your  image  as  the  awakener  of  holy  thoughts, 
and  whatever  may  be  my  individual  fate,  my  deepest 
prayer  will  embrace  your  happiness."  Then  kneeling  for 
a  moment,  and  kissing  the  cheek  of  the  little  slumberer,  he 
fervently  added,  "  Mnj  Heaven  restore  thee,  to  share  the 
virtues  of  thy  guardian  sister." 

The  morning  sun  rose  in  its  wonted  brightness  on  the 

village  of ,  but  Henry  was  already  winding  his  way 

over  the  distant  plains.     He  had  left  his  home  to  seek  the 
spirit's  repose,  and  found  himself  now  tossing  on  those 


THE  COVENANT  OF  HEARTS.       97 

billows  of  passion  where  the  soul  never  sleeps.  Such  are 
the  mists  that  veil  futurity  to  the  eyes  of  man.  Were  he 
not  guided  by  the  arm  of  Jehovah,  where  would  he  wan- 
der in  the  darkness  of  his  path  ?  Henry  completed  his 
intended  tour,  and  once  more  sought  the  paternal  roof. 
To  a  mind  like  his,  accustomed  to  commune  with  itself, 
solitude  is  the  most  efficient  antidote  for  unavailing  regret. 
He  who  dares  to  probe  his  own  heart,  will  spurn  its  weak- 
ness, and  tear  away  its  follies.  Henry  was  soon  calm, 
though  not  happy.  Malvpa  was  not,  indeed,  to  be  for- 
gotten, but  he  thought  of  her  rather  as  some  unearthly 
vision,  than  a  being  of  mortality  ;  and  again  assuming  the 
quiet  round  of  practical  duties,  he  spurned  forever  those 
brilliant  dreams  of  imagination  that  insidiously  liot  on  the 
strength  of  the  soul.  Meanwhile,  a  fatal  disease  had  seized 
on  the  frame  of  his  father,  and  again  it  was  the  part  of 
Henry  to  keep  a  ceaseless  vigil  in  the  chamber  of  suffer- 
ing ;  not,  however,  as  when  he  watched  the  calm  decay  of 
his  uncomplaining  mother,  were  these  vigils  cheered  by  the 
light  of  a  spirit  at  peace  with  heaven.  Amid  the  agonies 
of  dissolving  nature,  the  elder  Arville  clung  to  life  with  a 
desperate  intensity ;  and  while  his  disease  baffled  human 
skill,  he  struggled  with  death  as  the  warrior  struggles  with 
his  mortal  enemy. 

"  Ah !"  thought  Henry,  as  day  after  day  he  watched 
the  parting  soul,  writhing,  yet  unbent,  beneath  the  strong 
power  of  the  spoiler,  "Ah !  how  different  was  the  depart- 
ure of  my  sainted  mother !  Would  to  God  !  oh,  my  fa- 
ther, that,  like  her,  thou  hadst  that  strength  which  robs 
the  grave  of  its  victory  !" 

The  cares  of  the  son  were,  however,  unavailing ;  and  the 
unhappy  man  was  now  evidently  struggling  with  the  last 
conflict  of  humanity.     The  heart  of  Henry  was  torn  with 


98  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

unutterable  anguish,  and  his  spirit  wrestled  in  ceaseless 
prayer  for  the  sufferer.  As  he  bent  over  the  bed  of 
death,  his  lips  instinctively  moved ;  and  his  father  at 
length  fixed  his  glazed  eye  wildly  in  his  face. 

"  Prayest  thou  for  me  ?"  he  said ;  "  for  me,  who  never 
taught  thee  even  the  form  of  prayer  ?  But  for  thee  it 
matters  not.  There  was  one  who  led  thee  by  secret  paths 
to  thy  God,  and  preserved  thee,  amid  the  example  of  a 
father's  vices,  from  the  deadly  contamination  of  guilt." 

"  And  wilt  thou  not  pray  also,  my  father  ?  Even  at  this 
dreadful  hour  the  voice  of  supplication  shall  be  heard." 

"  Pray  !"  said  the  dying  man,  in  a  deep  and  hollow 
voice,  "  and  who  shall  dare  to  lift  the  hands  of  fraud  to 
the  throne  of  Jehovah?" 

Henry  shuddered,  and  a  momentary  silence  followed. 
He  then  exclaimed,  as  if  roused  by  a  new  and  sudden 
energy — 

"  If  there  is  aught  of  injustice  resting  on  your  soul,  oh  ! 
my  father,  suffer  it  not  to  pass  without  entering  the  fear- 
ful account.  For  this  purpose,  perhaps,  mercy  yet  stays 
your  departure.  Let  me  conjure  thee,  by  the  terrors  of 
the  grave,  lose  not  a  moment  in  transferring  to  your  son 
the  high  duty  of  restitution." 

A  faint  gleam  passed  over  the  countenance  of  the  fa- 
ther, and  he  looked  at  Henry  with  unwonted  tenderness. 

"  Knowest  tliou,"  he  at  length  said,  "  that  this  long  de- 
layed restitution  will  sweep  away  thy  expected  inherit- 
ance ?" 

"And  what  is  the  wealth  of  earth,"  exclaimed  Henry, 
"  that  its  price  should  be  an  everlasting  heritage  ?" 

The  expiring  Arville  seemed  now  imbued  with  preter- 
natural strength,  and  at  length  distinctly  luifoldod  a  tale 
of  fraud,  long  since  practised  on  one  who  had  trusted  in 


THE  COVENANT  OF  HEARTS. 


99 


his  integrity,  and  was  then  reduced  from  affluence  to  a 
scanty  pittance.  Of  his  subsequent  fate,  or  present  resi- 
dence, Arville  was  now  ignorant. 

" But  I  will  seek  him,"  said  Henry,  "with  a  vigilance 
that  distance  shall  not  baffle  ;  his  rights  shall  yet  be  re- 
stored, and  his  injuries  effaced  from  the  records  of 
heaven." 

An  hour  after  this,  the  penitent  Arville  expired,  with 
his  hands  clasped  in  voiceless,  but  fervent  prayer. 

One  absorbing  purpose  now  animated  Henry  to  exer- 
tion. To  trace  out  the  victim  of  his  father's  guilt,  and 
redress  his  wrongs,  was  his  only  object  of  earthly  solici- 
tude. Months,  however,  passed  away,  and  as  yet  inquiry 
was  unavailing.  He  had  just  returned  from  a  long  tour 
of  fruitless  search,  and  was  sitting  gloomy  and  alone  in 
the  splendid  mansion,  where  he  now  felt  himself  an  usurp- 
er, when  he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  his  reverend 
friend,  Mr.  Harley.  Deep  and  mingled  emotions  for  some 
time  deprived  him  of  utterance,  and  he  flung  himself  into 
the  arms  of  the  orood  old  man  in  silence. 

"  To  what,"  he  at  length  said,  "am  I  indebted  for  this 
\jelcome  visit  ?  Kind  and  compassionate  as  you  are,  I 
cannot  suppose  that  you  have  taken  so  long  a  journey  for 
my  exclusive  gratification." 

"  I  was  indeed  led  hither  by  other  motives,"  replied 
Mr.  Harley,  "but  the  anticipated  pleasure  of  this  meeting 
has  divested  the  journey  of  fatigue.  I  come,  however,  in 
behalf  of  the  heirs  of  Sidney  Howard,  to  receive  the  in- 
formation in  which  a  late  advertisement  of  yours  has  an- 
nounced him  deeply  interested." 

"Is  Sidney  Howard  then  dead?"  asked  Henry,  and  a 
bitter  pang  of  disappointment  wrung  his  heart  at  receiving 
an  affirmative. 


100  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  "  to  restore  to  himself  his 
usurped  rights — to  obtain  his  forgiveness  for  the  memory 
of  the  dead.  But  the  will  of  Heaven  be  done !  Tell  me 
who  aj'e  those  that  inherit  his  claims." 

"  His  orphan  children." 

"  Ah !  then  I  will  no  longer  repine.  In  discovering 
this  injured  family  I  am  sufficiently  blest." 

Mr.  Harley  now  inquired  the  nature  and  extent  of  those 
claims  that  were  yet  to  be  unfolded. 

Henry  for  a  moment  hesitated.  From  his  venerable 
friend  he  could  reserve  nothing,  and  the  crimes  of  his  fa- 
ther flushed  his  pale  cheek.  The  disclosure,  however, 
was  at  length  made — he  told  his  shame,  his  sorrows,  and 
his  plans  for  the  future.  Mr.  Harley  listened  with  pater- 
nal interest,  and  then  folded  him  to  his  heart  with  pious 
affection. 

"  Noble  youth !  in  thus  renouncing  the  wealth  that  has 
hitherto  surrounded  you,  you  become  invested  with  a 
splendor  far  above  the  control  of  circumstances." 

The  children  of  the  deceased  Howard  now  became  the 
subject  of  inquiry. 

"  Were  tliey  left  friendless  and  in  want  ?  Or  had  d^- 
tant  fiiends,  or  bequeathed  wealth,  preserved  them  from 
destitution  ?" 

"  They  were  thrown  on  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Harley, 
"  penniless,  and  without  kindred  or  home.  But,  Henry," 
he  added,  with  a  changed  expression  of  countenance,  "  I 
cannot  trifle  with  feelings  sacred  as  yours — know,  then, 
that  the  orphans  of  Sidney  Howard  are  the  interesting 
sisters  of  the  Sabbath-school." 

Language  is  powerless  to  describe  the  emotions  of 
Henry.  We  must  hasten  to  a  conclusion.  Mr.  Harley 
returned  not  alone.     Respect  for  Malvina  rccjuired  the 


THE      COVENANT     OF     HEARTS. 


101   'i 


personal  restoration  of  her  rights,  and  Henry  accompa- 
nied him.  He  wished  her  prepared  for  the  interview,  and 
appointing  an  early  hour  for  rejoining  his  friend,  he  re- 
mained at  the  village  inn.  Once  more  in  the  bosom  of  his 
family,  Mr.  Harley  gradually  unfolded  the  result  of  his 
journey.  Till  now,  from  a  deep  regard  to  the  delicacy  of 
her  feelings,  she  had  been  kept  ignorant  even  of  its  pur- 
pose ;  mingled  and  overwhelming  emotions  wrought  lier 
whole  frame  during  the  disclosure,  and  she  looked  for- 
ward to  the  appointed  arrival  of  Henry  with  an  indefina- 
ble intensity  of  feeling.  He  ai'rived — he  was  already  at 
her  feet — he  presented  her  the  deeds  which  made  the 
heirs  of  Sidney  Howard  the  legal  proprietors  of  the  late 
Arville  estate. 

"  Receive  from  me,"  he  said,  "  the  restoration  of  your 
paternal  rights.  I  present  them  as  the  representative  of 
my  father's  dying  will ;  and  beg,  as  the  last  boon  I  shall 
ever  crave  of  Malvina,  that  she  will  cease  to  execrate  his 
unfortunate  memory." 

Henry  paused  ;  his  dark  eye  was  lifted  to  her  face  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  dignity  and  tenderness,  and  his 
pale  countenance  glowed  with  the  enthvisiasm  of  holy 
feeling. 

"  Tell  me,  Malvina,"  he  continued,  and  the  tones  of  his 
voice  had  now  something  of  .yet  unsubdued  passion,  and 
the  purple  veins  of  his  wan  temples  swelled  with  emotion, 
"  tell  me,  Malvina,  gentle  and  amiable  as  you  are,  may  I 
not  hope  that  you  will  forgive  the  deep  injuries  of  your 
family  ?" 

Malvina  gradually  recovered  her  wonted  calmness. 

"  Rise,"  she  said,  giving  her  hand  to  Henry,  "  and  think 
not  that  aught  dear  to  you  can  inspire  ungentle  feeling ; 
all  that  has  passed  is  already  and  forever  effaced  from  my 


102  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

memory,  save  that  when  I  was  yet  a  child  of  penuiy,  you 
would  have  shared  with  me  your  better  fortunes — that  for 
my  sake  you  would  have  cherished  the  fatherless  children 
whose  fate  was  united  with  my  own." 

"Alas  !"  said  Henry,  "why  do  you  touch  this  chord  of 
agony?  why  probe  the  wounds  thai?  can  never  heal?" 

"  Stay  your  reproaches,"  said  Malvina.  "When  I  last 
saw  you,  could  the  daughter  of  Sidney  Howard  at  that 
time  have  become  a  member  of  your  family  ?  That  sea- 
son of  trial  is,  however,  past;  and  if  I  still  retain  a  place 
in  your  affections,  receive  at  length  a  heart  which  has  long 
been  yours,  and  accept  in  trust  the  future  guardianship  of 
my  orphan  sisters." 

A  week  after,  the  covenant  of  hearts  was  forever  sealed. 
Mr.  Harley  pronounced  the  bridal  benediction,  and  those 
who  had  given  even  of  their  penury  to  the  orphans  of  the 
deceased  Howard,  were  the  chosen  friends  who  witnessed 
the  sacred  scenes,  and  who  shared  the  future  prosperity  of 
Malvina. 


...     Vy. 


"TRUST  IN  GOD  AND  ALL  WILL  BE  WELL." 


BY     MES  .     E.    P.     H. 


When  sorrow  presses  down  the  heart, 

And  youth's  bright  hopes  have  fled  ; 
When  one  by  one  our  joys  depart, 

And  we  mourn  o'er  the  early  dead ; 
When  a  cloud  of  gloom  hangs  o'er  the  soul, 

That  the  lips  refuse  to  tell, 
A  whisper  is  borne  on  the  stilly  air — 

"Trust  God ;  and  all  is  well." 

When  the  smile  of  the  world  has  lost  its  charm. 

Loved  friends  have  proved  untrue. 
And  the  secret  tear-drops,  fast  and  warm, 

Down  the  care-worn  cheek  pursue ; 
Oh !  even  then  a  solace  sweet, 

The  dark  clouds  may  dispel — 
"  Where  is  thy  faith  ?  0,  child  of  Earth  ! 

Trust  God ;  all  will  be  well." 

I  feel  that  this  world  is  not  my  home. 

That  its  trials  will  soon  be  past ; 
And  oft  through  the  lengthened  night  will  come 

Glad  thoughts  of  peace  at  last. 
When  the  shadows  of  death  will  dim  my  eye. 

And  to  earth  I  bid  farewell. 
Heaven  grant  that  in  that  dread  hour  I  may 

"Trust  God— and  all  will  be  well." 


THE    SNOW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


A    REAL    INCIDENT. 


"  Shepherd.     Ye  may  mony  and  mony  times  think  yersel'  surroanded  wi'  happi- 
ness, when  misery,  bitin'  misery,  is  gnashin'  at  yoar  hough." 


"  Queer  weather,  this,"  said  I  to  my  landlady,  as, 
turning  from  the  window  where  the  snow  was  driving  at 
a  brisk  pace,  I  attempted  to  pull  on  my  warm  boot, 
which  had  been  keeping  sentry  at  the  fireside  for  an  hour ; 
"  queer  weather  this  ;  and  to  prepare  himself  for  all  the 
changes  of  our  fickle  climate,  one  must  e'en  wear  a  wea- 
ther-watch under  his  nose.  Yesterday  I  was  abroad 
without  a  cloak ;  last  evening  the  moon  was  clear,  though 
cold ;  and  to-day,  i'faith,  it  is  snowing  as  briskly  as  if 
winter  had  just  made  its  enlne.  Tempora  mutant  et." 
My  Quaker  landlady  interrupted  my  Latin,  (for  she  does 
not  like  gibberish,)  saying — 

"Thee  knows,  Vivy,  that  every  back  is  made  for  its 
burden,  and  the  hand  that  put  thee  here  has  fashioned 
the  weather  to  thy  need." 

"  That  is  a  fact,"  said  I,  more  good-humoredly,  (for 
who  could  resist  the  placid  smile  that  shone  btMieath  her 
plain  cap  ;  she  must  have  been  a  beauty  in  her  day  ;)  and, 
revolving  over  sundry  other  things  which  might  bring  a 
little  sunshine  on  my  cloudy  humor,  I  drew  on  the  second 

boot,  with  a  smile  far  more  becoming  to  a  youth  of , 

(I  shan't  tell  you  my  age,)  than  that  morbid  discontent 
which  wears  out  the  good  nature  of  its  owner  without 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  105 

mending  an  unexpected  hole,  clearing  an  unexpected 
storna,  or  warming  a  cold  breakfast. 

Standing  awhile  in  front  of  the  good  orrel  coal  fire,  in 
order  that  my  clothes  might  inhale  all  the  heat  possible, 
I  wrapped  my  espaiiol,  drew  down  the  "  tabs^  of  my  fur 
cap,  spread  my  umbrella,  and  in  a  few  seconds  was  on  the 
pave,  braving  Avith  my  best  humor  the  headwind  and  the 
sleet. 

Every  one  who  ventures  forth  in  a  snow-storm  knows 
the  inconvenience,  when  the  wind  is  ahead,  of  making 
way  for  windward  passers ;  if  he  carry  his  umbrella  above 
a  certain  line,  he  exposes  his  face  and  breast  to  the  storm ; 
if  he  try  to  defend  these  sensitive  parts  from  the  hurri- 
cane, he  is  liable  to  butt  the  first  comer,  thereby  causing  a 
cracking  of  umbrella-bones,  and  an  efflux  of  angry  words  on 
both  sides.   In  this  state  of  manao-ement  or  mismanaofement, 

I  was  passing  along  ■ street ;  tired  at  last  of  bobbing 

this  way  and  that  way,  I  found  myself  in  the  wake  of  a 
fellow-passer,  who  (to  speak  in  Irish  jig-blarney)  "showed 
a  clean  pair  of  heels ;"  lowering  my  umbrella,  then,  to  the 
most  defensive  attitude,  I  kept  on  in  his  wake,  having  the 
hem  of  his  cloak  and  his  Avell-armed  heels  to  philosophize 
upon.  Now  the  knowledge  of  this  modern  world  is  so 
diffuse,  and  its  sources  so  varied,  that  the  trite  themes  of 
antique  philosophy  are  absolutely  hurs  du  combat ;  and  we 
moderns,  when  we  do  take  it  into  our  heads  to  reverie, 
must  come  to  something  absolutely  extraneous,  or  else  so 
vulgar  as  to  have  been  considered  too  low  to  think  upon ; 
ergo,  the  "philosophy  of  a  pair  of  heels"  would  have  as 
just  a  title  to  the  admiration  of  all  philo-philosophs,  as  an 
errant  discourse  upon  the  stars,  or  a  metaphysical  one 
admitted  into  the  pages  of  the  Westminster  Review. 

Mais  au  revoir.  My  antecedent  traveller  was  walking 
6 


106  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

an  easy  pace,  and  I  trode  in  his  steps  thankful  for  such  a 
guide  ;  if  he  bobbed  streetward,  I  bobbed  streetward  ;  if 
he  bobbed  wallward,  I  bobbed  wallward  ;  thus  avoiduig 
those  concussions  which  give  rise  to  more  temper  than  com- 
fort. 

I  philosophized.  Judging  from  his  heels,  which  were 
brif)-htly  polished  and  armed  with  brazen  foundations  ;  from 
the  hem  of  his  cloak  also,  which  was  nicely  covered  with 
braid ;  and  also  from  his  well-brushed  pantaloons,  which 
huno-  beneath  his  cloak,  the  person  befoi-e  me  was  a  good 
husband  with  a  good  wife,  a  handsome  estate,  and  every- 
thing to  make  this  life  comfortable  ;  he  must  be  a  happy 
man,  who,  attending  to  his  profession  during  the  day,  re- 
tired to  his  wife,  friends,  books,  and  wine  at  evening.  I 
thought  him  to  be  a  middle-aged  man,  for  his  step  was 
firm,  without  the  elasticity  of  youth ;  I  thought  him  to  be 
a  happy  man,  he  hem'd  so  good-humoredly  ;  I  thought 
him.  to  be  a  gentleman,  he  carried  his  head  so  knightly. 
After  pursuing  this  dos-h-vis  pace  for  a  while,  he  appeared 
to  be  sensible  that  he  was  dogged,  and  first  slackened,  then 
quickened  his  tread ;  perceiving,  at  last,  that  I  followed 
his  motions,  he  turned.  He  was  a  Scotchman  ;  I  swore  it 
from  his  pleasant  gray  eye  and  sandy  hair,  not  to  say  any 
thing  of  his  neat  vest  of  Maxwell  plaid.  I  met  his  gaze, 
which  was  pleasant,  though  he  meant  it  to  be  pettish,  with 
one  equally  good-humored  ;  he  smiled,  apologetically,  ob- 


servmg — 


"  A  deuced  comfortless  day." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  I,  (for  I  felt  original,)  "  not  at  all ;  I 
love  a  stormy  day ;  all  my  good  feelings  gather  round  my 
heart  to  keep  it  warm ;  and  I  can  truly  say,  I  never  feel 
80  well  towards  myself  or  my  fellow-men  as  I  do  on  a  day 
like  this." 


THE     SNOW    ACQUAINTANCE 


107 


"  Weel,  weel,  young  m on,  I  like  muckle  your  kindly 
spirit ;  and  I  believe  that  when  ye  are  sae  comfortable 
yoursel',  your  heart  yearns  towards  your  fellow -creatures 
mair  and  mair." 

"  'Tis  very  true,"  said  I,  "  I  never  love  mortals  so  well 
as  when  everything  around  makes  me  feel  desolate  ;  it  is 
then  I  turn  even  to  a  stranger,  and  could  take  him  to  my 
bosom  with  as  ready  a  heart  as  if  I  had  known  and  loved, 
him  for  years ;  still  more,  if  I  guessed  he  had  sorrows  at 
his  heart  that  my  sympathy  could,  assuage." 

He  seemed  touched. 

"  Weel,  young  mon,  what  think  ye  o'  me  ;  hae  I  the 
look  o'  dolor  or  o'  happiness  ?" 

"  I  should  imagine  you  to  be  a  fond  father,  a  happy 
husband,  a  staid  friend,  and  a  rich  citizen." 

"Ah,  young  frien',  (for  I  dinna  ken  what  to  call  ye) — " 

"  Vivian,"  said  I,  interrupting  him. 

"  Vivian,  it  isna  a'  gowd  as  glisters  ;  it  isna  a'  sun  that's 
sheen.  I  like  ye  muckle,"  he  rejoined  ;  "  and  I  will  tell 
ye  that  before  ye  stands  ane  who  wears  a  cheerfu'  face  but 
a  cankered  heart ;  wha  might  wi'  his  gowd  trick  himsel' 
out  wi'  gear  and  laces,  but  couldna  buy  a  new  heart,  ne 
repair  his  wounded  spirit.  Ye  hae  more  sympathy  in  your 
face  than  I  have  been  blessit  wi'  the  sight  o'  syne  I  touchit 
the  shore  o'  America." 

"  I  am  young,  sir,  and  uninitiated  in  the  distresses  of 
the  world  ;  my  fate  has  been  kindly  cast,  and  I  have  never 
bad  reason  to  weep  for  real  sorrows  ;  you  well  know  that 
all  mortals  have  a  surfeit  of  imaginary  ones." 

"  It  is  very  true,  ilka  douce  maun  hae  its  bitter,  and  our 
dainty  palate  will  find  it  oot  where  there  isna  a  drap.  But, 
come  alang,  gin  ye  hae  a  bittock,  to  spare  to  an  auld^ne 
who  is  i'  the  search  for  consolement.     If  naethin'  mair  it 


108  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

would  be  kind  to  see  where  I  hae  picchit  my  tent,  that  ye 
may  drap  in  hke  a  fellow-sodger  i'  this  wearisome  warfare 
o'  the  world.  I  will  a'ways  guaranty  ye  Hielaud  ale, 
warm  slippers,  and  a  warmer  welcome." 

I  consented  cheerfully,  and  we  soon  stopped  before  a 
small,  neat  house,  where  the  outside  showed,  to  a  casual 
glance,  an  air  of  thorough  comfort,  without  the  least  at- 
tempt at  display.  On  knocking,  the  door  was  opened  by 
a  well-clad  urchin,  whose  broad  face  bespoke  him  a  sprig 
of  "  the  land  o'  cakes  ;"  and  we  were  ushered  into  an  en- 
try, well  warmed  and  carpeted,  provided  with  a  large 
couch  and  stuffed  chairs,  for  the  ease  of  those  whose  des- 
tiny was  to  '•'  groom  the  parlors."  We  entered  the  first 
door,  and  I  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  a  kind-faced 
matron,  who  was  industriously  forming  stars,  rhomboids, 
and  parallelograms,  on  a  chintz  counterpane  ;  she  rose  at  our 
entrance,  and  I  was  introduced  to  the  "  gude  wife,  Judith." 

"  Who,"  my  host  added,  "  was  my  foster-mate  in  child- 
hood, and  has  noo  come  to  dream  awa'  the  rentail  o'  her 
days  i'  the  keepin'  and  ganin'  o'  my  crouse  household." 

Bowing  to  the  curtseying  housekeepei",  who  seemed  to 
have  acquired  that  accomplishment,  so  rare  with  females, 
silence,  I  followed  my  kind  entertainer  to  an  inner  room, 
where  a  blazing  fire  invited  us  to  sit.  Mine  iiost  pointed 
to  a  wadded  chair,  which  appeared  to  have  been  inhaling 
for  an  hour  or  two  the  delicious  caloric  of  the  three  oaken 
logs,  that  were  blazing  and  crackling  so  merrily  in  the 
chimney.  I  showed  my  perfect  willingness  to  make  my- 
self as  much  chez  inoi  as  poiisible,  and  thrusting  my  feet 
forward,  exposed  their  damp  soles  to  the  cheering  heat.  A 
thump  on  the  deal  table  with  his  fist  brought  to  mine  host 
the  J^Ltle  Scotch  Ganymede,  who  first  greeted  us  with  his 
chubby  face. 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  109 

"Comforts  for  twa,  Geordie,"  was  the  concise  request. 

He  disappeared,  and  soon  returned  with  slippers,  lined 
with  linsey  ;  an  ominous  looking  jug,  of  the  species  called 
"  monkey,"  and  a  couple  of  solid  tankards,  on  whose  bright 
sides  gleamed  a  tasteful  crest.  Crossing  the  room  to  a 
heaufet,  which  filled  one  corner,  he  produced  some  clean 
pipes,  with  a  small  package  of  well-laid  tobacco  ;  handing 
then  from  a  crypt  near  the  fireplace  a  well-worn  snuff- 
box, of  the  goodly  size  of  Voltaire's  geant  tabatiere,  he 
retired,  closing  the  door  with  the  least  possible  noise. 

While  mine  host  was  assiduously  arranging  the  "  comforts 
for  twa,"  and  after  I  had  exchanged  my  boots  for  the 
linsey-slippers,  I  took  a  cursory  survey  of  the  room. 

The  first  object  which  attracted  my  notice  was  a  large 
oaken  bookcase  ;  on  whose  ample  shelves  were  piled 
large  antiquated  volumes,  and  a  few  of  more  modern  dress  ; 
on  the  top  were  two  busts  of  marble,  much  smoked,  ap- 
parently heads  of  maids  and  fawns  ;  back  of  these,  against 
the  wall,  was  a  brown,  rusty  gun,  of  an  inch  and  a  half 
calibre,  curiously  adorned  with  rough  fretwork  in  silver; 
a  large  roquelaure  of  the  Maxwell  plaid  hung  on  one  side 
of  the  bookcase.  Some  fishing-tackle  and  sporting  accou- 
trements were  dispersed  around.  In  the  corner  was  the 
fore-mentioned  bemifet,  which,  desecrated  from  the  use  of 
the  costly  china  and  ancient  plate,  was  filled  with  pipes, 
tobacco,  pamphlets,  fishing-lines ;  and  was,  in  fact,  a  me- 
lange of  the  odds  and  ends  of  mine  host's  boudoir.  Over 
the  mantel  were  suspended  three  portraits  ;  one  was  a 
sturdy  old  smoke-faced  veteran,  in  stiff  armor  and  drapery, 
evidently  a  pi'oduction  of  the  Holbein  school ;  the  second 
was  the  portrait  of  a  pleasant-faced  lady,  in  the  coif  and 
ruffle  of  the  last  century ;  near  this  hung  a  fresh  painting 
of  a  young  female,  apparently  twenty ;  a  melancholy  ex- 


110  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

pression  was  thrown  over  the  face,  although  the  artist  had 
evidently  striven  to  force  a  smile  on  the  pale  visage  of 
the  damsel ;  her  hands  were  folded,  and  there  was  a  some- 
thing peculiarly  bewitching  in  the  straight  gaze  of  her 
mild  eye.  A  framed  sampler  hung  between  the  two  win- 
dows of  the  apartment ;  a  small  cabinet  of  polished  oak 
was  under  it.  The  windows  were  shaded  with  curtains 
of  plaid  cotton,  and  supported  by  a  rough  valance,  where 
the  thistle  was  scored  into  a  half-existence  by  some 
doughty  Canova.  My  eye  again  returned  to  the  pensive 
face  over  the  mantel,  and  I  fell  into  a  reverie. 

My  thoughts  were  soon  interrupted  by  a  loud  pop,  and 
I  saw  a  cork  finding  its  way  to  the  ceiling.  The  white 
froth  streamed  over  the  sides  of  the  "  monkey,"  and  mine 
host  offered  me  one  of  the  silver  tankards  filled  to  the 
brim  with  ale,  "  the  like  of  which,"  he  said  "  had  never 
found  its  way  adown  the  Frith  o'  Solway."  After  having 
drunk  a  willie-waugh  of  the  best  ale  I  ever  tasted,  and 
lighted  our  pipes  (I  am  quite  a  pipester  for  a  youth)  the 
old  man  began  the  following  discourse  : 

"  Gin  ye  are  wise  o'  the  plaids,  ye  maun  hae  kenned 
afore  this  by  the  three  black  and  twa  green  on  this  vest 
and  that  auld  rokelo,  (whilk  I  call  my  coat  o'  arms,)  that  I 
am  a  Max'cll ;  John  Max'ell ;  I  am  noo  fifty,  and  liae  led 
a  life  as  chequered  as  the  chess-board ;  but  amid  a'  the 
troubles  wi'  whilk  a  gude  Providence  has  laden  me,  I  hae 
preservit  gude  spirits  and  a  light  heart.  My  story  (and  I 
ken  ye  are  too  kind  to  be  uninterested  in  it)  is  soon  tauld  ; 
and  gin  I  mak'  ye  gape,  I  will  pay  wi'  a  plate  o'  Aberdeen 
brosc,  and  a  round  o'  beef  o'  Judith's  ain  cookin',  wlia 
willna  dolf  her  peak  to  any  French  cidsiiiier. 

"  I  was  born  at  Braemar,  whilk  ye  ken  is  at  the  head  o' 
the  bonnie  Dee ;  my  father  was  a'so  John  Max'ell  of  the 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  HI 

auld  and  proud  line,  wha  made  sick  a  feck  and  fasli  because 
they  drew  their  ruddy  blude  from  twa  dukes,  three  earls, 
and  a  score  o'  lairds  and  baronets ;  my  father  wasna  a 
proud  man ;  he  was  muckle  smit  wi'  republican  principles, 
and  o'  his  ain  gude  will  droppit  the  title  o'  Sir,  because, 
said  he,  chantin  a  staff  o'  rantin'  Robbie, 

"  The  rank  is  hut  the  guinea  stamp, 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 

He  was  the  anely  son  o'  his  father.  Sir  Rob  Max'ell,  and 
received  the  last  breath  o'  his  father  wi'  his  clear  estate  o' 
Max'ell  holm  at  the  age  of  twenty-three.  At  twenty-five 
he  married  my  blessit  mother  Mary,  (peace  to  her  banes  !) 
who  in  my  twelfth  year  gave  up  the  ghaist,  and  socht  the 
God  she  had  a' ways  loved  sae  weel.  That  is  her  picture 
whilk  ye  see  aboon  the  mantel ;  the  day  she  died  she  laid 
her  ban's  on  my  head  wi'  just  the  pure  look  you  see  there, 
and  bade  me  loe  my  Maker  and  my  father  wi'  a'  my  heart 
an'  soul ;  after  some  more  gentle  words  she  closit  her  lips 
and  went  to  her  endless  sleep."  (Here  I  observed  a  tear 
start  into  the  eye  of  Maxwell ;  he  wiped  it  away  with  his 
finger  and  continued :) 

"  I  had  the  best  education  whilk  could  be  procured  at 
Braemar,  for  my  father  wouldna  trust  me  in  Edinbro',  and 
my  mither  on  her  death-bed  tauld  him  to  keep  me,  aboon 
a',  frae  the  chiels  o'  the  town. 

"  Twa  miles  and  a  bittock  adoun  the  Dee,  (dinna  laugh 
at  an  auld  man's  love  tale,)  lived  Esther  M'Khay ;  I  lo'ed 
her  ;  she  lo'ed  me  ;  we  made  mony  and  mony  times,  i'  the 
silent  walks  near  M'Khay  cottage,  a  tryst  whilk  baith 
keepit  i'  gude  faith ;  her  father's  blude  wasna  gentle,  he 
being  the  son  of  an  armorer  at  Aberdeen ;  by  thrift  he 
had  saved  a   "  mansel  or  twa,"  and  lived  on  ane  o'  the 


112  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

prettiest  spots  in  Scotland  ;  we  lo'ed  in  secret,  for  I  kend 
my  father,  though  nae  sae  proud  as  tome  folk,  had  still  a 
•winkin'  to  a  body's  tree  o'  pedigree.  I  keepit  a  little  boat, 
and  under  the  cloak  of  anglin'  for  some  o'  the  little  vipers 
o'  the  Dee,  I  drifted  down  a'ways  to  the  quay  in  front  o' 
M'Khay  cottage ;  being  social  in  ray  temper  I  could  not 
bear  to  fish  alane,  and  Ettie  was  sic  a  boon  companion,  and 
was  sae  handy  in  baitin'  the  angle,  that  I  believit  a  mon 
couldna  but  be  fou'  to  deny  himsel'  sic  a  bird  to  sit  i'  the 
bush  wi'  him. 

"  The  mon  my  father  lo'ed  the  maist,  he  wha  wad  eat 
his  dinners,  drink  his  wine,  and  use  his  bed  and  board  as 
if  they  were  his  ain,  was  Ma  rk  Thorndyke  ;  oh  !  that  mon 
had  a  de'il  in  his  e'e ;  his  very  speech  was  worms  and 
adders ;  he  Avound  himsel'  around  my  father,  shared  his 
livin'  and  his  secrets,  and  (to  use  an  old  saw  of  the  dominie 
of  Braemar  school)  he  was  amicus  alter  ipse  to  him.  My 
mither  feared  him.  She  warned  my  father  o'  him.  My 
father's  breast  was  pure  as  the  day,  and  he  couldna  and 
wouldna  believe  that  the  fiien'  o'  his  bosom  was  a  treason- 
ish  mon.  My  mither  said  nae  mair.  Day  after  day,  and 
night  after  night,  they  wad  tak'  their  guns  and  dogs,  and 
gang  awa'  frae  hame  in  search  o'  buck  and  fowl.  I'  my 
natal  month  o'  my  twelfth  year,  my  mither  died.  Mark 
and  my  father  were  mair  thegither  than  ever.  I  said  nae- 
thing ;  I  could  do  naething.  For  five  years  mair  they 
were  han'  in  glove.  Ane  day  in  July  they  were  anglin' 
i'  the  Dee;  about  noon  a  storm  arose;  the  little  waves  o' 
the  Dee  grew  larger  and  fiercer ;  the  winds  roared  and 
the  water  heaved  like  a  kraken  i'  the  North  sea ;  the  boat 
capsized  ;  my  father  was  drownit ;  Thoriulyke  swam  ashore  ; 
O  God !  I  never  shall  forget  the  day  when  the  body  o' 
my  father  was  draggit  frae  the  bosom  o'  the  Dee,  gnawit 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE. 


ii; 


and  liauklit  by  tlie  fishes  !  I  think  I  see  it  noo  as  it  lay 
sae  manght  i'  the  shroud  i'  front  o'  the  porch  o'  Max'ell 
holm.  Many  were  the  tears  that  were  shed  by  our  tenants 
and  kin  to  the  memory  o'  the  kind  soul  wha  had  gane. 
He  lies  i'  the  Max'ell  grave-yard  wi'  a'  his  forefathers,  and 
close  by  the  side  o'  my  reverit  mither.  Noo  comes  the 
sairest  part  o'  the  tale.  The  will  was  openit.  I  was  left 
to  shirk  for  mysel'.  The  estate  o'  Max'ell  holm,  its  auld 
elms  under  whose  shade  I  had  studied  my  Liber  Primus  ; 
its  hounds,  horses,  shaw  deer,  mere,  birds  and  a',  Avere 
left  (my  lips  burn  wi'  the  word !)  to  Mark  Thorndyke. 
My  blude  bqilit  at  the  injustice.  I  ran  gnashin'  my  teeth 
to  the  stead  where  this  devil  incarnate  lived.  I  rated 
him,  swore  and  callit  on  the  blessit  shades  o'  John  and 
Mary  Max'ell.  '  Cool  your  blude,  cool  your  blude,  young 
mon,'  said  he  wi'  a  sardonic  grin  that  wouldna  hae  shamit 
Moloch,  '  your  father  has  left  a  thing  or  twa  mair  here 
whilk  mayna  please  ye  as  week'  He  handed  me  twa 
pieces  o'  paper  on  whilk  was  written  i'  my  father's  ain 
fair  han' : 

"'Braemar,  Maxwell  Arms,  May  17 — 

"'This  is  to  certify  that  I,  John  Maxwell,  bart.,  have 
at  certain  and  sundry  times,  and  at  certain  and  sundry 
games  at  whist,  drafts,  palm,  and  shovel-board,  lost  to 
Mark  Thorndyke,  gent.,  of  Aberdeen,  £20,000  in  ready 
stocks  and  money  ;  besides  my  whole  estates  of  Maxwell 
Holm,  manse,  demesne,  chattels,  tenements,  feoffs  and 
freeholds;  also  my  dogs,  cattle,  horses,  pictures,  books, 
plate,  and  jewels. 

"  '  God  forgive  me, 

" '  John  Maxwell,  of  Maxwell  Holm. 

"'  Signed  dnd  sworn  before  Alex.  Thrackle,  cleric,  pro - 
thonUary,  S^cJ 
6* 


114  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Had  a  waxen  torcli  been  held  close  upon  my  e'en, 
they  couldna  hae  been  mair  dry  and  parchit  than  they 
were  then ;  the  sight  o'  the  cursed  parchment  had  searit 
and  scalit  my  very  tears.  '  Oh !'  I  groaned  in  my  bitter- 
ness o'  spirit,  '  the  curses  o'  a'  the  Max'ells  be  upon  ye  ; 
tak'  my  birthright,  ye  hell-hound  !  Tak'  from  the  orphan 
the  very  sod  to  sleep  on;  close  your  hatefu'-e'en  gin  ye 
can,  and  rest  quiet  'neath  the  roof  o'  my  fathers ;  God  for- 
o-ive  ye,  I  canna.'  Flinging  at  him  the  hateful  witnesses 
of  my  father's  guilt,  I  rushit  out  wi'  a  burnin'  brow,  and 
sat  me  down  aneath  ane  of  those  trees  whilk  had  grown 
wi'  my  growth,  and  strengthenit  wi'  ray  strength.  My 
sorrows  soon  found  a  way  to  run  out  in  tears,  and  I  wecpit 
lano-  and  bitterly.  I  gatherit  my  books,  claies,  and  jewels 
thegither,  whistled  to  my  dog  Bruce,  my  anely  frien', 
(nae,  nae,  my  anely  frien',)  seatit  mysel  i'  my  little  boat, 
and   paddlit  wi'  as  light  a  heart  as  possible  adown  the 

Dee. 

"  I  stoppit  at  the  quay  of  M'Khay  cottage  ;  it  was  twi- 
lio-ht.  •  I  stole  to  the  Httle  room  aboon  the  dairy,  whilk  I 
reachit  by  creepin'  up  a  bower  o'  cinqucfoil,  until  I  steppit 
upon  its  little  balcony.  ' Ettie' — 'John'— her  head  was 
in  my  bosom.  She  gave  me  a  sweet  look  ;  (here  the  bright 
tears  ran  races  down  the  cheeks  of  Maxwell ;)  '  Why  are 
your  e'en  sae  red,  John  ?'  *  The  warld  has  deserted  me, 
Ettie.' — '  Nae,  nae,  John,  dinna  say  that,  for  I  will  cling 
to  ye  when  the  warld  and  a'  are  gane.'  A  burst  of  grief 
easit  my  achin'  heart.  I  sat  down  wi'  my  head  restin'  on 
the  saft  bosom  o'  Ettie,  and  tauld  her  my  sorrows.  In 
sic  sweet  communion  passit  the  bonis  till  the  morn  was 
hie  i'  the  heavens,  and  I  started  frae  the  arms  o'  Ettie. 
'We  maun  part,'  said  I,  'the  warld  is  a'  ane  to  nic.  I 
am  young  and  healthy,  puir  and  cantie  ;  i  loved  you  when 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  H5 

I  was  rich,  I  winna  marry  when  puir;  but  gin  God  pros- 
per me,  we  will  be  ane.'  The  saut  tears  fell  in  abundance 
frae  our  e'en,  and  I  canna  tell  the  whilk  wept  the  harder. 
I  left  wi'  her  my  books  and  the  few  jewels ;  tied  my  bonnie 
boat  in  the  boat-house ;  callit  Bruce,  and  travellit  afoot 
to  Aberdeen.  Frae  there  I  took  passage  to  the  Firth  of 
Forth,  and  in  due  time  enterit  Edinbro'. 

"  Born  to  affluence  I  wasna  taught  i'  the  mystery  o' 
ony  useful  occupation,  but  was  intendit  for  the  bar,  and 
was  therefore  inexperiencit  and  unkenn'd  i'  the  warld.  I 
was  fash  wi'  the  pen,  and  had  mair  than  an  inklin'  o'  arith- 
metic. I  enterit  a  compting-house.  At  twanty-ane  I  was 
i'  the  house  as  a  partner.  At  twanty-five  I  married 
Ettie. 

"When  I  returnit  to  the  quay  o'  M'Khay  cottage,  I 
felt  proud  to  think  that  I  had  showit  mysel'  worthy  the 
blude  o'  the  Max'ells ;  auld  Nigel  himsel'  (that's  he  over 
the  mantel  wi'  the  straight  armor  on,  and  is  the  ooner  o' 
the  big  blutherbuss  over  the  bookis,)  wouldna  blush  for 
the  spirit  o'  his  great  gran'  child.  Na,  na,  the  blude  he 
spillit  at  Both'ell  Brig  wasna  mair  worthy  a  king's  favor 
than  mine,  Vivian. 

"  After  Ettie  and  I  were  ane,  I  went  to  Braemar  ;  my 
heart  was  full ;  I  couldna  breathe  the  air  o'  Max'ell  holm 
wi'out  my  mither's  sweet  face  risin'  amang  a'  the  trees  and 
o'er  ilka  hillock.  Thorndyke  was  dead.  A'  the  tenantry 
cam'  wi'  tears  i'  their  e'en  to  greet  the  return  o'  the  lawfu' 
laird.  Amang  the  rest  cam'  Sandie  Broon,  wha  tauld  me 
anither  horror. 

*  "  '  I  were  fishin'  on  the  Dee,'  said  Sandie,  '  not  a  bittock 
mair  than  ten  ells  frae  your  blessit  father,  when  the  storm 
cam'  up,  and  the  boat  was  o'erturnit.  Thorndyke  caught 
baud  o'  the  keel ;  your  father  sank  ;  he  cam'  up  agin  to 


116  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

the  tap  ;  I  saw  Thorndyke  (and  he  lookit  hke  a  bogle 
o'  hell  when  he  did  it)  strike  your  father  down  wi' 
his  ain  foot;  the  douce  John  Max'ell  sunk  to  rise  nae 
mair.' 

"  My  blude  froze  i'  my  veins  ;  I  would  hae  uttered 
blightin'  curses  o'  the  head  o'  the  hell-hound  Thorndyke  ; 
but  he  has  gane  to  render  accounts  to  ane  mair  worthy  to 
judge  and  punish  than  I,  puir  worm  ! 

"  I  willna  tell  ye  how  proud  I  was  o'  my  blushin'  bnde 
Ettie,  but  gin  ye  will  gie  me  that  ebon  box,  ye  shall  see 
her.     (I  here  handed  him  a  small  casket  of  ebony,  orna- 
mented with  pearl  buhl.     He  opened  it  and  showed  me  a 
lovely  picture,  which   closely   resembled   the   melancholy 
face  over  the  mantel.     She  was  in   her  bridal  dress,  and 
I  sitting  in  the  bower  of  cinquefoil,  which  had  so  often  been 
the  scene  of  their  tender  love.     In  the  same  casket  was  an 
aigrette  of  pearls  and  diamonds  ;  a  splendid  ring,  whose 
diamonds  formed  a  crest,  while   beneath  the  largest  one 
could  be  perceived  the  initials  M.  D.,  Mary  Douglas :  it 
was  his  mother's  bridal  lint;.      Jn  the  casket  were  a  few 
other  seals  and   jewels,  all  having  an  appearance  of  anti- 
quity.)    We  lived  peacefu*  and  happy  ;  my  marriage  was 
blest  wi'  anely  a  daughter — (here  he   sighed  deeply) — at 
the   age  o'  thirty  I  retired  to  IVIax'ell  holm,  whilk  I  had 
purchasit  wi'  my  ain  siller,  blest  wi'    wealth,  a  wife,  and 
ane  dear,  dear  child. 

"  The  rose  whilk  opens  its  velvet  leavis  to  inhale  the 
douce  breeze  o'  the  mornin',  and  thraws  open  its  wee 
bosom  to  take  in'  the  kindly  draps  o'  dew,  dreams  na  o' 
the  cauld  wind  o'  the  mountain,  whilk  will  rush  aboon  It, 
dryin'  the  dew  and  carryin'  awa  its  tender  leavis. 

"  My  fair  chiel'  I  namit  Estlier  Douglas ;  thereby  com- 
memoratin'  my  spouse,  and  my  milher  whilk  is  i'  lieaven.  She 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE 


117 


grew  fair  as  a  lily,  and  promisit  mori}  and  mony  happy  days  to 
me.  When  hhe  had  reachit  lu-r  rourteenth  year  her  mither 
Esther,  my  dear  Ettie,  Avham  1  had  wed  frae  my  boyhood, 
was  laid  on  her  death-bed.  She  had  been  lin'erin'  more 
than  twa  years  wi'  a  disease  i'  the  heart.  Ane  night  she 
awakit  wi'  the  heart-breakin'  words  :  '  John,  I  canna  live 
the  night  out;  I  shall  di'  before  the  sunrise;  dinna  gang 
for  the  doctor;  it  winna,  be  o'  Any  use  ;  my  heart  has 
been  gnawit  awa'  by  the  con.sumplion,  and  the  last  mairsel 
o't  will  gang  to-night ;  I  maun  see  Ettie  afore  I  di'.  Ah  ! 
that  sweet  chiel',  she  has  niver  causit  me  a  tear-drap  ;  I 
couldna  gie  ye,  John,  a  better  gift ;  and  still  I  a'ways  had 
a  fear  she  wouldna  di'  weel ;  her  spirit  is  sae  gentle  she 
couldna  say  nay  to  her  enemy ;  watch  o'er  her,  John ; 
watch  her  wi'  mair  than  a  father's  e'en  ;  dinna  influence 
her  love ;  ye  ken  that  you  yoursel'  maun  hae  di't,  gin  your 
father  had  sayit  nay  to  the  lo'e  o'  me.  Mark  me,  John, 
be  mair  than  a  father  to  her;  noo  gang  and  ca'  her,  that  I 
may  bless  my  e'en  wi'  the  sight  of  her.  God  bless  you 
and  Ettie,  John.'  I  tossit  on  my  claics,  like  a  daft  mon  ; 
1  flew  to  awak'  the  maid,  and  then  to  my  little  Ettie's 
chamber;  dear  chiel',  she  was  asleep,  wi'  as  douce  a  smile 
on  her  mon'  as  wad  hae  glinted  on  the  lips  o'  Gabriel  ;  I 
awakit  her,  and  she  went  wi'  me  like  a  trettiblin'  dove  to 
the  bed  o'  Esther.  We  arrivit  there  wi'  fear  in  our  hearts. 
There  she  lay  i'  her  angelic  beauty  ;  there  was  her  bright 
e'en,  they  expressit  naethin' ;  there  were  her  red  lips,  they 
movit  not ;  there  was  her  lily  han',  it  was  cauld.  Ettie 
turnit  and  weepit  on  my  breast;  she  kent  the  truth;  we 
arrivit  too  late ;  her  mither's  gentle  spirit  had  flown  alaft 
to  plead  for  us  i'  heav'n."  ^ 

A  convulsive  burst  of  grief  rent  the  boaom  of  Maxwell; 
in  a  few  minutes  more  he  was  calm. 


118  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Do  not,"  said  I,  wliile  the  tears  were  streaming  from 
my  own  eyes,  "  pain  yourself  with  the  recital ;  leave  it, 
my  friend,  until  some  time  when  you  can  tell  the  rest  with 
less  grief." 

"Na,  na,"  said  he,  "I  am  usit  to  sorrow,  and  the  part 
o'  my  tale  (whilk  ye  may  think  too  lang)  the  maist  griev- 
ous is  yet  to  come. 

"  I  kent  it  wasna  wise  to  rpourn  ;  a'  the  tears  i'  the 
warld  wadna  bring  her  back  again,  sae  I  dried  my  e'en, 
and  thankit  heaven  wi'  a  hum'le  heart  that  its  kindness  had 
spared  me  my  ain  Ettie.  I  sent  for  the  best  instructors  i' 
a'  tlie  gentle  arts  a  leddie  should  learn,  and  ilka  day  I  saw 
tlie  dear  blossom  expan'  under  my  ain  e'en.  Ye  ken  a 
father's  is  a  partial  e'e,  but  maugre  that,  I  maun  think  the 
earth  never  held  a  cherub  like  mine  Ettie.  Gin  ye  hae 
seen  a  mornin'  flower  besprent  wi'  dew,  sae  were  the  e'en 
o'  my  little  Ettie  when  a  tale  o'  sorroV  was  tauld  to  her 
ear.  Aften  and  aften  has  she  sat  on  my  knee,  and  I  hae 
discoursit  to  her  o'  her  dear  mither,  until  the  tears  wad 
rin  down  her  saft  cheeks. 

"  Amang  the  tutors  o'  accomplishments  that  cam'  to 
Max'ell  holm  to  teach  my  Ettie,  and  make  her  fit  to  enjoy 
the  sweets  o'  this  life,  was  ane  o'  the  name  o'  Burleigh 
Jacob  Burleigh.  He  hadna  mair  than  twenty  years  o'er 
his  head,  when  he  cam'  wi'  monj'  recommends  to  teach 
my  Ettie  to  finger  the  spinet  and  harp.  He  was  mico 
douce  and  gentle  in  his  way,  and  soon  workit  himsel'  in 
my  good  graces  by  his  free  carriage  and  witty  clavers", 
Nae  person  made  himsel'  mair  welcome  to  our  table,  and 
I  lo'ed  much  to  hear  his  rich  voice  while  Ettie  fingerit  the 
harp.  I  found  soon  tliat  he  cam'  too  often.  Ettie  took 
mair  lessons  i'  mubic  than  becam'  a  young  leddie  wha  wad 
mak'  hersel'  glib  i'  the  chart  and  lexicon.      When  BurhMgh 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE 


119 


was  absent  she  wad  sigh,  and  sometimes  weep  ;  and  when 
he  openit  the  door  her  e'en  wad  sparkle,  and  the  bright 
red  fly  o'er  her  cheek.  While  I  was  present  he  taught 
her  faithfully  the  gamut,  the  stops,  and  the  quivers  ;  but, 
the  moment  my  back  was  turnit,  the  music  ceasit,  and  I 
could  hear  a  low  gentle  whisperin'.  This  wasna  weel ;  I 
didna  like  it ;  besides,  I  hae  seen  them  arm-in-arm  under 
the  arborage  o'  the  auld  elms  ;  to  be  sure,  they  had  music 
i'  their  ban's  ;  but  I  saw  them  look  aince  at  the  music  and 
twice  at  ilk  ither. 

"I  was  ane  day  wanderin'  by  the  gude  auld  hostelrie 
o'  Max'ell  arms,  when  the  landleddie,  a  brousie  auld  wife, 
cam'  out,  and  tappin'  me  on  the  sliouther,  beckonit  me  i'- 
the  tap-room. 

"  '  I  wouldna  wound  the  feelin's  o'  a  worm,'  said  she, 
'  muckle  mair  sae  gude  a  raon  as  John  Max'ell ;  but  it  isna 
mair  than  right  that  you  should  ken  a'  I  do.' 

"  Sae  sayin'  she  led  me  back  o'  the  bar,  and  liftin'  a 
dirty  red  curtain,  pointit  to  the  scene  within.  I  there  saw 
Jacob  Burleigh  playin'  cards  wi'  Sandy  Dribble,  a  puir 
shote  o'  Braemar ;  his  e'en  were  red  wi'  anger  and  strong 
drink,  his  hair  was  brushit  back  ;  and  reelin'  about  in  his 
chair,  he  thumpit  the  table  wi'  his  doublit  fist,  till  the 
glasses  rung  again.  I  retirit,  shockit  wi'  the  sight,  to  my 
hame.     Ettie  had  gane  to  bed. 

"  The  next  mornin'  Burleigh  sent  word  he  couldna  give 
Miss  Max'ell  her  usual  lesson,  as  he  was  confinit  to  his 
bed  wi'  an  ague-fit.  Ettie  lookit  dour  enough.  I  took 
her  on  my  knee,  and  in  as  gentle  words  as  possible  tauld 
her  the  scene  o'  the  passit  night,  and  o'  my  intention  to 
dismiss  Burleigh.  When  I  had  finishit  I  perceivit  that 
Ettie  had  fainted  i'  my  arras.  I  calht  upon  Judith  loudly ; 
she  soon  cam'  in,  and  brought  Ettie  to  life  wi'  sauts ;  and 


120 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


having  put  her  to  bed,  and  left  her  in  a  gentle  slumber, 
returnit  again  to  her  household  wark. 

"  I  immediately  dispatchit  a  servant  for  Burleigh.  He 
hadna  gane  ten  steps  frae  the  door  afore  he  met  Burleigh, 
on  his  way  to  my  house.  I  was  i'  my  study  when  Bur- 
leisfh  enterit. 

"  '  You  have  sent  for  me,  Mr.  Maxwell,'  said  he,  'and 
your  servant  luckily  encountered  me  on  my  way  to  see 
you.  I  suppose  you  have  some  '  auld  rackie,'  or  some 
Aberdeen  venison  for  me,  to  give  my  mind  on ;  but  the 
matter  that  I  have  in  hand  is  of  a  more  serious  nature.  I 
have  long  seen,  taught,  and  loved  your  daughter  Ettie  ; 
and,  though  I  cannot  boast  of  much  gear,  I  come  to  offer 
her  my  hand  and  heart ;  to  her  I  know  it  will  be  accept- 
able, and  I  hope  equally  so  to  you.' 

"  He  very  leisurely  took  a  seat,  tossit  doim  his  hat,  and 
coolly  crossit  his  legs  on  anithcr  chair.  My  blude  boilit 
wi'in  me. 

"  '  Ye  miscreant !'  at  length  I  cried,  'hae  ye  the  impu- 
dence to  propose  your  dirty  han'  to  the  daughter  o'  John 
Max'ell  ?  What  divil  or  what  drink  hae  ye  in  j-our  head, 
that  ye  wad  dare  to  min'le  your  foul  fiddlin'  blude  wi' 
mine  ? 

" '  I  am  sorry  ye  don't  like  my  blood,  Mr.  Maxwell,' 
answered  he,  coolly  smiling ;  '  but  I  did  not  know  there 
was  so  great  a  difference  between  the  son  of  a  musician 
and  the  grand- daughter  of  a  gunsmith.'  (Here  the  reptile 
wad  quiz  the  origin  o'  my  lost  Esther.)  '  It  is  not  well, 
however,'  continued  he,  '  for  a  man  to  cavil  with  his  father- 
in-law  ;  you  can  make  me  as  rich  as  you  please,  and  I 
warrant  I  will  scrape  up  a  baronet  or  two  among  the  Bur- 
Icighs  to  match  the  Maxwells.  You  would  not  miss  a  few 
angels,  old  boy,  to  set  up  a  worthy  son-in-law,  would  ye  ?' 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  121 

"  My  auld  Adam  were  risin'  i'  my  throat,  but  I  stufflit 
it  doun,  and  askit  coolly,  'Where  were  ye  last  night?' 

"  He  said  he  were  sei«it  wi'  an  ague-fit,  and  was  con- 
finit  to  his  bed.     ISToo  my  auld  Adam  burst  forth. 

"  '  Na,  na,  ye  son  o'  a  fiddler,  ye  gam'ler,  ye  drunkard  ; 
last  night  ye  lost  your  honor,  senses,  and  money  to  Sandie 
Dribble.  Out  wi'  ye!  gam'ler,  drunkard,  liar!  and  dinna 
darken  my  doors  wi'  the  sight  o'  ye.  My  son-i'-law,  for- 
sooth !     My  son-i'-law  !      Out  wi'  ye.' 

"  Sae  sayin',  I  collarit  him,  and  thrust  him  out  the  door. 
After  he  was  gane  I  felt  muckle  exhausted,  and  soothit 
mysel'  into  a  gentle  slum'er.  On  wakin'  it  was  dark.  I 
ca'ed  Judith,  and  askit  gin  Ettie  were  in  her  cham'er. 
She  noddit  her  head,  and  closit  her  e'en  to  si'nify  that 
Ettie  were  asleep ;  for  ye  ken  my  auld  Judith  here  is 
doom?" 

"  Dumb  ?"  said  I. 

"  Ay,  sure ;  doom  as  a  fish ;  and  unco  good  reason  to 
be  silent.  I  said  nae  mair,  but  soon  retirit  to  rest.  The 
next  mornin'  I  sat  cosily  by  the  fire  readin'  the  Aberdeen 
Chronicle,  while  the  warm  bannocks  were  smokin'  on  the 
table.  '  Gang  and  ca'  Ettie,'  said  I ;  '  it  is  na  aften  she 
lags  to  the  breek'ast.  God  grant  she  maunna  be  sick!' 
Judith  went  and  returnit  wi'  her  e'en  and  mou'  wide  open, 
while  she  pointit  to  the  chamber  o'  Ettie.  I  rushit  by 
her,  and  enterit  the  chamber.  Nae  Ettie  were  there. 
Every  thin'  Avas  the  same  as  tofore.  The  bed  was  na 
tum'lit.  A  few  articles  o'  clothin'  were  missin'  frae  her 
wardrobe.  I  faintit  awa',  and  lay  mony  minutes  senseless ; 
but  the  rea  dy  han'  o'  Judith  restorit  me  to  my  senses.  Ettie 
was  gane.  Where  had  she  gane  ? '  Wi'  whom  had  she 
gane? 

"  Aboot  an  hour  after,  a  little  ragged  brat  threw  a  soilit 


122  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

paper  i'  the  window,  and  ran  awa'  like  a  deer.     1  recog- 
nizit  the  han'writin'  o'  Ettie.     It  said, 

"  '  I  cannot  see  you  again,  beloved  and  only  parent.  I 
am  married,  and  have  been  for  a  month.  God  forbid  that 
I  should  bring  sorrow  on  your  gray  hairs.  Pray  for  me. 
Do  not  revile  me.     I  am  broken-hearted. 

"  '  Esther  Burleigh.' 

"Nae  trace  could  I  find  o  'em.  Nae  boat  had  passed 
Braemar  after  twal  o'clock.  Xae  horses  had  been  hirit  i' 
the  village.  I  ravit  and  stampit  like  a  daft  mon,  and  at 
last  settlit  doim  into  complete  melancholy.  I  closit  Max- 
'ell  holm,  and  biddin'  Braemar  '  God  speed,'  wi'  tears  i' 
my  e'en,  I  took  wi'  me  my  faithfu'  Judith  and  her  babie 
son  (for  Judith  is  a  widow)  and  steerit  for  Edinbro'.  Nae- 
thing  could  be  tracit  there ;  and  for  twa  years  or  mair  I 
were  travellin'  in  England  and  the  south  o'  Europe.  My 
health  waxit  puirer  and  puirer.  Ane  night  I  arrivit  in 
London,  and  to  pass  awa'  the  time,  I  went  to  the  play- 
house. I  were  watchin'  the  playin'  wi'out  interest,  when 
wha  should  appeay  on  the  stage  as  an  underlin'  but  Bur- 
leigh ?  He  was  ca'ed  Wilcox  i'  tlie  playbill.  I  couldna 
mistake  his  strut  and  leer.  My  bluda  rushit  to  my  head ; 
but  I  soon  coolit  doun,  and  left  the  house.  I  set  mysel' 
on  a  watch  at  the  stiifje-door.  It  was  not  lanfj  tofore 
Burleigh  came  out  wi'  twa  or  three  companions.  lie  was 
beastly  drunk;  and  staggerit  alang  like  a  dreamin'  mon. 
Puir,  dear  Ettie !  whare  was  she  ?  My  heart  was  i'  my 
mou'.  I  fc^llowit  him  cautiously.  He  soon  leavit  his  boon 
companions,  and  went  his  way  to  a  dark  and  dirty  alley, 
where  e'en  the  brisk  night  breeze  couldna  allay  the  nox- 
ious fumes.  He  soon  turnit  up  a  court-yard.  He  enterit 
a  murky  and  sordit  stairway,  and  on  tlie  sccon'  landing  he 
enterit  a  room.     1  thocht  I  heard  a  moanin'.     Soon  after, 


THE     SNOW     ACQUAINTANCE.  123 

a  meek  voice  (oh  liow  that  voice  thrillit  through  me !) 
said,  'Jacob,  is  that  you?  I  thought  you  would  never 
return.     Oh  dear,  dear !  I  am  in  great  pain.' 

"  'Always  grumbhng,  always  grumbling  ;  keep  yourself 
contented — you  might  be  worse  off.' 

"  '  True,  too  true ;  I  deserve  to  be  worse  off.  I  have 
deserved  all  this,  and  more.  I  am  patient.  God  forgive 
me.' 

"  '  Patient !  I  should  like  to  see  the  time  that  you  are 
patient.     How's  the  brat  ?' 

"  '  He's  alive  and  well.  Sorry  am  I  to  say  it.  It  were 
a  mercy  if  he  died.' 

"  '  Here  the  voice  became  fainter  and  fainter,  till  it 
seemit  as  if  prayin'.  I  could  endure  nae  longer.  I  rushit 
in.  '  Ettie  !'  exclaimed  I,  *  my  ainly  chiel',  my  dear  Ettie  !' 
Upon  a  squalid  bed,  coverit  with  a  dank  and  patchit 
coverlet,  laid  a'  that  remainit  o'  my  dear,  my  ain  Ettie. 
She  startit  up  at  the  sound  o'  my  voice.  Oh  heaven  !  I 
couldna  believe  that  the  puir,  meagre,  wae-begone  skel- 
eton that  reachit  its  arms  towards  me  was  Ettie.  It  had 
her  e'en  ;  how  sunken  and  diramit.  It  had  her  hair  ;  but 
how  mattit  and  witherit.  I  claspit  her  in  my  arms.  She 
lookit  up  wi'  a  douce  smile,  while  a  bright  tear  stood  in"' 
her  e'en. 

"  '  Father,  do  ye  forgi'e  me  ?' 

"  '  Ay,  Ettie,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgi'en.' 

"She  said  nae  mair,  but  wi'  a  look  that  would  hae 
bribit  angels,  died  i'  my  arms."  (Here  Maxwell  threw 
himself  back,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  convulsive  flood  of 
tears,  I  could  not  interrupt  him.)  He  soon  continued, 
"  This  was  my  greatest  pang.  I  could  hae  lost  the  warld 
had  the  warld  left  me  Ettie.  She  di'it.  I  hae  to  thank 
God  for  mony  mercies.     I  winna  repine  for  a'  my  troubles, 


124  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

and  ye  ken  weel  how  mony  there  are.  My  father,  mither, 
Ettie,  a'  gane  "wi'  the  wife  o'  my  bosom  to  a  better  earth 
than  this. 

"  I  never  saw  Burleigh  mair.  I  heard  he  was  imprisonit 
for  some  crime,  and  died  i'  prison.  I  had  the  body  o' 
Ettie  buried  i'  the  graveyard  o'  Max'ell  holm.  That  is  a 
picture  o'  her  ta'en  after  death.  The  painter  has  tryit  to 
throw  her  douce  expression  into  the  face,  but  he  hasna 
tauld  a'  its  sweetness.  The  chiel'  o'  Ettie  died  on  my 
way  to  America.  I  live  here  noo  wi'  nae  person  but 
Judith  to  keep  me  company.  I  am  happy  as  a  mon  o'  my 
miseries  can  be.  I  do  muckle  for  the  puir,and  they  thank 
me  iTQuckle  in  return.  It  were  unkind  indeed  gin  after  all 
the  blessin's  Providence  hae  sparit,  I  couldna  gie  o'  my 
superfluity  to  the  starvin'  children  aroun'  me.  Ye  hae 
heard  an  auld  men's  tale.  I  hae  weepit,  but  I  hae  weepit 
wi'  satisfaction ;  for  ye  are  amaist  the  only  person  wha 
has  expressit  onythin'  like  sympathy  for  me.  I  hear  the 
step  o'  Judith  i'  the  entry.  It  is  dinner  time.  A'ways 
when  ye  hae  nae  better  way  to  gar  your  time  pass,  drap 
in  to  see  ane  wha  will  a'ways  mak'  ye  welcome." 

After  a  sumptuous  and  substantial  dinner,  I  bade 
"  good-bye"  to  John  Maxwell.  My  philosophy  of  the 
heels  was  entirely  tiodden  down.  I  had  augured  wrong ; 
and  must  now  believe  with  the  old  shepherd,  "  Ye  may 
mony  and  mony  times  think  yerscP  surrounded  wi'  hap- 
piness, when  misery,  bitin'  misery  is  gnashin'  at  your 
hough."  V.  u.  v. 


THE    VOICE    OF    THE    GRASS 


BY     MISS     SARAH     KOBEETS. 


Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere  ; 
By  the  dusty  roadside. 
On  the  sunny  hillside, 
Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 
In  every  shady  nook  ; 
Creeping — creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere  ; 
All  round  the  open  door, 
Where  sit  the  aged  poor, 
There  where  the  children  play 
In  the  bright  and  sunny  May, 
I  come  creeping — silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere  ; 
In  the  noisy  city  street 
My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 
Cheering  the  sick  at  heart, 
Toiling  their  busy  part — 
Silently  creeping — creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping — creeping  everywhere  ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming. 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming, 


126  THE    MOSS-ROSE. 

For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  hght, 
I  come  creeping — creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere, 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  summer's  pleasant  hours, 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad. 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping — creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere, 
When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed. 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home. 
Creeping — silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come — creeping — creeping  everywhere ; 
My  humble  song  of  praise 
Most  gratefully  I'll  raise 
To  him  at  whose  command 
I  beautify  the  land. 
Creeping — silently  creeping  everywhere. 


A    WEDDING    AT    SCHOOL. 

What  a  pity  that  a  story — an  old  soldier's  especially — 
should  ever  require  a  beginning !  that  it  could  not  like 
some  general  actions — and  those  not  the  least  important  I 
have  been  engaged  in — be  irregularly  brought  on  by  a 
random  shot  from  some  unknown  quarter,  or  some  chance- 
medley  sort  of  encounter  between  raw  troops ;  and  thus 
the  hero,  heioine,  and  all  the  corps  d'armee,  comfortably 
enveloped  in  one  cloud  of  smoke — whether  from  powder 
or  segars,  signifies  little — be  brought  at  once  into  close 
quarters  with  each  other  and  the  readers. 

Next  to  the  chill  discomfort  of  standing  under  arms  for 
hours  of  gray  twilight,  waiting  for  an  enemy,  too  wise  or 
too  wary  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  doing  anything,  is 
the  nervous  feeling  of  sitting  on  a  rainy  day,  when  nothing 
in  earth  or  sky  seems  dry  but  one's  own  brain,  with  a 
formidable  quire  of  paper  drawn  up  before  one,  meditating 
a  beginning  to  a  tale. 

I  got  over  that  part  of  my  business,  thank  my  stars, 
before  I  sat  down  ;  so  now  I  have  only  to  beg  the  reader 
to  suppose  me,  first,  a  small  urchin  of  an  only  boy ;  next, 
a  roguish,  unlucky  school-boy,  with  just  nous  enough  to 
keep  him  from  being  a  dunce,  and  idleness  in  abundance 
to  keep  him  from  being  a  scholar ;  then  a  raw  ensign,  in 
love  with  nothing  but  his  own  coat  and  feathers ;  then, 
for  a  long  period,  a  busy,  war-worn  soldier,  with  no  leis- 
ure for  any  mistress  but  glory ;  and,  lastly,  for  my  story 
I  promised,  begins  in  the  middle  ;  a  major  of  some  four- 
and-thirty  years'  experience  in  the  world,  with  a  few  scat- 


128  THE     MOSS-ROSE.  | 

tered  gray  hairs  on  his  temples,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  leisure  as  well  as  inclination  to  be  in  love. 

I  suppose  it  was  this  very  leisure  and  opportunity,  , 
that,  with  the  usual  waywardness  of  man,  prevented  my 
availing  myself  of  either.  I  was  quartered  in  a  succession 
of  gay,  bustling  towns,  full  of  beauty  and  fashion,  and  all 
the  el  ceferas  of  the  newspaper  vocabulary.  In  vain  I 
attended  balls ;  nay,  danced,  though  I  confess  neither 
with  the  spirit  or  good  grace  of  an  absolute  volunteer, 
flirted — for  what  Irishman  could  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  i 
youth  and  beauty,  without  indulging  in  that  species  of 
lively  chit-chat,  which  a  good-natured  world  styles  flirta- 
tion ? — but  it  would  not  all  do.  I  remained  like  a  perfect 
salamander,  if  not  unsinged,  at  least  unconsumed  ;  and  be- 
gan to  fancy  my  heart  had  been  changed,  like  the  babes 
of  an  Irish  nursery  tale,  by  some  fairy,  and  a  cannon  ball 
substituted  in  its  place.  Yet  it  went  thump,  thumping  as 
usual  when  I  saw  any  dashing  aff'air  in  the  gazette,  and 
grew  soft  as  a  frosted  potato  when  any  old  soldier's  wife 
came  whining  with  a  story  of  distress ;  but  in  love  I  could 
not  manage  to  be,  and  it  was  very  provoking  to  one  who 
literally  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Had  the  same  favorable 
combination  of  circumstances  occurred  ten  years  sooner, 
there  would,  I  dare  say,  have  been  no  difficulty ;  but  a 
man  past  thirty  has  his  wits  terribly  about  him  ;  and,  as 
the  most  fluent  writer  has  sometimes  all  his  ideas  put  to 
flight  by  the  sound  of  the  postman's  bill ;  the  sight  of  a 
stray  gray  hair,  with  its  "now  or  never"  memento,  flur- 
ries a  man  too  much  to  allow  him  to  make  up  his  mind. 

I  began  to  fancy  myself  a  lieutenant-general  on   the 
staff,  with  no  soul  near  me  but  a  cross  housekeeper,  and  I 
a  fifteenth   cousin,  deaf  and  blind,  and  with  a  mind  nar-  ] 
rowed  to  the  compass  of  a  regulation  shoe-tie.     1  envied  i 


A     WEDDING    AT     SCHOOL.  129 

every  married  man  I  saw ;  fancied  all  their  shrews  or 
dowdies,  angels  incarnate,  and  wondered  why  there  were 
no  such  girls  in  the  markets  now. 

My  steeple-chase  after  a  wife  was  interrupted,  by  re- 
ceiving notice  of  my  promotion  to  a  lieutenant-colonelcy 
in  a  regiment  in  the  West  Indies,  and  orders  to  join  in  a 
month,  or  six  weeks  at  farthest.  This  obliged  me  to  go 
immediately  to  London,  and,  happening  to  pass,  on  the 

day  after  my  arrival,  the  fashionable  school  in Place, 

where  my  sister  was  a  parlor-boarder,  I  could  not — hur- 
ried as  I  was — resist  callingr,  feelinaf  that  we  micfht  so  soon 
be  separated,  probably  for  years. 

I  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room,  and  received  by 
one  of  the  stately  and  somewhat  awful  ladies  at  the  head 
of  the  establishment,  whose  portly  figure  and  showy  style 
of  dress  presented  the  utmost  imaginable  contrast  with 
those  of  a  fair,  sylph-like  young  creature,  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, who  sat  drawing  in  the  bow- window  of  the  apart- 
ment. 

There  was  somethinar  about  this  elescant,  interesting: 
creature  which  rivetted  my  attention  in  spite  of  myself. 
I  felt  half  sorry  she  should  be  so  very  young — apparently 
not  above  seventeen — and  ashamed  to  be  so  caught  by 
one  little  beyond  childhood.  ''There  is  no  fool  like  an  old 
fool !"  thought  I  to  myself.  I  have  seen  many  prettier 
faces  in  my  time,  and  why  should  I  think  twice  about  a 
school-girl  ? 

I  did  think  about  her  though — and  look  at  her  too  ;  and 

as  Miss  T ,  apparently  from  some  scruple  of  propriety, 

in  remaining  tete-a-Ute  with  a  smart  offiiier,  evidently  dis- 
couraged her  efforts  to  escape,  I  had  full  leisure  to  gaze 
on  the  sweetest  and  most  regular  of  profiles.  Long,  dark 
lashes,  fringing  a  cheek,  pale,  but  not  wan  ;  lips  whose  ex- 
7 


130 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


pression  was  that  of  one  of  Raphael's  angels,  and  a  lovely 
polished  forehead,  round  wliich  luxuriant  auburn  curls  de- 
fied the  confinement  of  a  little  cap,  which  I  concluded 
she  must  wear  from  slight  indisposition,  and  which,  from 
contrast  with  her  young,  cherub  face,  only  made  her  more 
interesting.  Her  black  dress  only  enhanced  the  transpa- 
rency of  her  skin,  and  the  delicacy  of  her  figure  ;  in  short, 
the  tout  ensemble,  dress,  figure,  and  face,  were,  in  my  opin- 
ion, perfect. 

My  sister,  good  girl,  kept  me  waiting,  as  sisters  will 
do — for  she  was  quite  unaware  of  our  probable  approach- 
ing separation — so  that  conversation  between  Miss  T 

and  I  began  to  flag.  I  could  not  talk  to  her  on  the  only 
subject  I  cared  sixpence  about,  nor  iiould  she  have  an- 
swered me  if  I  had — so  not  being  able  to  speak  of  the 
young   lady   in   the   window,   we    spoke   to   her.      Miss 

T asked  me  if  I  was  fond  of  drawings,  and  I  had  no 

more  hesitation  in  answering  "  yes"  than  if  it  had  been 
true.  Indeed,  so  it  was,  for  I  found  myself  suddenly  in- 
oculated with  a  passion  for  the  fine  arts,  which  prompted 
me  to  rise,  and  beg  leave  to  admire  more  nearly,  what  had 
enchanted  me  at  a  distance.  Whether  this  was  the  draw- 
ing or  the  artist,  I  was  of  course  not  bound  to  declare. 

The  subject  was  a  pair  of  beautiful  twin  children,  evi- 
dently from  nature  or  memory,  for  she  had  no  model  be- 
fore her.  "  Your  brother  and  sister,  I  presume  ?"  said  I ; 
"  for  you  seem  to  have  them  completely  in  your  mind's 
eye." 

She  sighed,  as  she  answered,  with  a  slight  blush,  "  I 
am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  have  eitiier." 

"  Near  relations,  then,  I  am  sure  ?"  said  I,  trying  to 
fancy  a  resemblance. 

"Not  relations,"  answered    Miss  T ,  for  her  fair 


A      WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  131 

pupil;  "only  connected — the  children  of  a  very  dear 
friend." 

The  pencil  trembled  in  the  young  painter's  hand.  She 
became  so  evidently  uneasy  and  desirous  to  escape,  that 

Miss  T-- 's  prudery  gave  way  to  her  good-nature  ;  and 

softly  saying,  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Montolieu,  will  you  be  kind 
enough  to  hasten  Miss  Donovan  ?  her  brother's  time  is 
limited ;"  she  opened  the  door  and  the  beautiful  vision 
vanished. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Montolieu  !"  repeated  I,  mentally.  "  Did 
I  hear  aright  ?  Mrs. !  to  this  girl  of  sixteen — this  girl 
with  whom  I  was  already  half  in  love?"  So,  according  to 
an  inconceivable  fatality,  I  was  again  doomed  to  find  a 
paragon  in  a  married  woman — one,  probably,  left  on 
account  of  extreme  youth,  and  a  husband's  absence,  to 
finish  her  imperfect  education  !  Miss  T read  my  un- 
governable curiosity  in  my  face,  and  was  about  to  gratify 
it,  when  my  sister  entered ;  and  the  worthy  governess, 
concluding  I  should  be  better  pleased  with  Sophy's  eluci- 
dations than  her  own,  sailed  majestically  out  of  the  room. 

"  Sophy,  my  dear  girl,"  cried  I,  after  our  first  hearty 
greeting,  "  who  is  that  beautiful  little  creature,  whom  Miss 

T has  absolutely  petrified  me  by  calling  Mrs.  ?    How 

came  she  to  be  a  wife  at  her  years,  and  left  at  school  with 
her  charms  ?  Her  husband  is  either  much  to  be  blamed, 
or  pitied !" 

"  He  is  to  be  lamented,  poor  fellow  !"  said  Sophy,  look- 
ing very  grave.  "  He  is  dead  ;  and  Alexina,  at  eighteen, 
has  been  nearly  two  years  a  widow."  I  could  not,  for  my 
life  even,  pretend  to  be  sorry,  but  I  was  shocked  and  so- 
bered. There  was  something  so  very  romantic  and  unu- 
sual in  the  whole  affair,  that  if  romance  and  mystery  be 
the  food  of  love — and  a  diet  on  which  I  think  it  thrives 


132  THE     MOSS-ROSE, 

marvellously — mine  had  wherewithal  to  make  it  grow  like 
a  mushroom.  "A  widow!"  I  exclaimed,  mechanically, 
thinking  whether  the  two  cherub-children  could  by  any 
possibility  be  her  own.  "  A  widow  !  then  why  does  she 
live  here  ?" 

"  For  a  very  simple  reason,  brother  John,  that  she  has 
no  other  place  of  abode.  Poor  Alexina  !  hers  is  a  strange 
yet  soon-told  history.  She  was  placed  here  in  infancy,  by 
an  eminent  foreign  merchant,  who  duly  paid  in  the  hand- 
somest manner  for  her  education,  till  about  three  years 
ago,  on  his  sudden  death,  the  disorder  of  his  affairs  put  a 
stop  to  the  supplies ;  nor  among  his  papers  could  a  trace 
be  found  of  the  history  or  connections  of  his  protege. 
That  she  was  foreign  was  evident  from  her  speaking  only 
French  when  brought  hither;  but  that  France  is  not  her 
country,  is  equally  so,  from  her  infant  recollections,  imper- 
fect as  they  necessarily  were  at  three  years  old." 

"But  her  marriage  ?"  said  I,  impatiently;  "her  wid- 
owhood ?" 

"  It  is  a  dismal  thing,  dear  John,  to  have  not  a  friend  in 
the  world — not  even  a  brother  to  cling  to — in  a  worse  than 
orphan  condition.  I  thought  poor  Alexina  would  have 
sunk  under  the  sense  of  desolation,  which,  in  spite  of  the 

kindness  of  Miss  T ,  preyed  on  her  gentle  heart  and 

delicate  feelings.  She  was  apparently  hastening  into  a 
decline,  when  an  amiable  girl,  her  favorite  companion,  in- 
vited her  with  an  affectionate  earnestness,  on  leaving 
school,  to  accompany  her  for  the  winter  into  Devonshire. 
This  was  not  a  proposal  to  be  declined  by  one  so  forlorn 
and  friendless  ;  but  had  the  poor,  drooping  lily  foreseen  the 
suffering  that  well-meant  kindness  was  to  entail  on  her, 
she  would  have  shrunk  from  it  with  dismay.  Ilor  friend 
was  all  she  could  fondly  wish ;  and  her  parents,  though 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  133 

cold,  selfish,  and  unconciliating,  were  too  fond  of  their  in- 
dulged daughter,  to  blame,  while  they  wondered  at,  her 
Quixotic  affection  for  a  nameless  orphan. 

"  Health  soon  reanimated  the  poor  girl's  frame,  and  man- 
tled on  her  blooming  cheeks  ;  and  her  beauty,  whose  bud 
had  been  chilled  and  repressed  by  incipient  illness,  ex- 
panded into  rare  perfection.  The  very  harsh  old  people 
at  Sidbury  felt  its  influence,  and  grew  kinder  to  the  crea- 
ture whom  every  body  else  loved  and  admired  ;  and  Alex- 
ina  fancied  herself  too  happy.  Her  friend  Lucy,  whose 
every  feeling  she  shared  with  sisterly  sympathy,  was 
revelling  in  all  the  luxury  of  a  permitted  and  requited  at- 
tachment, and  was  erelong  to  be  married  to  the  object  of 
her  early  affection.  Captain  Willoughby,  a  young  but  dis- 
tinguished officer. 

"  The  wedding  would  have  wanted  its  dearest,  as  well  as 
brightest  ornament,  had  Alexina  not  remained  to  act  the 
part  of  bridemaid.  It  received  an  unexpected  guest  in 
Lucy's  only  brother,  an  amiable  and  accomplished  young 
man,  whom  parental  jealousy  and  tyranny  had  driven  to 
seek  independence  in  India;  but  who,  an  early  sufferer 
from  its  climate,  had  been  reluctantly  sent  home,  with  a 
constitution  severely  shattered,  but  it  was  hoped  not  irre- 
mediably injured.  His  parents,  softened  by  the  helpless 
weakness  of  their  only  son,  hailed  his  return  with  joy  and 
kindness  ;  and  cheered  by  this  reception,  and  invigorated  by 
his  native  breeze,  he  seemed  daily,  though  slowly,  to  recover. 

"There  was,  perhaps,  an  unconscious  balm  in  the  smiles 
of  Lucy's  friend,  which  acted  as  a  charm  on  his  harassed 
spirits  ;  for  he  uniformly  revived  under  her  presence,  and 
drooped  when  she  was  out  of  his  sight.  You,  Jack, 
who  seem  even  now  to  have  been  fascinated  by  the  faded 
relics  of  her  dazzHng  beauty,  need  hardly  be  told  how 


134  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

soon  or  how  deeply  Edmund  Montolieu  loved.  You  know 
the  world  too — selfish,  callous,  mercenary  as  it  is — and 
can  fancy  the  indignant  reception  the  avowal  of  his  at- 
tachment met  with  from  his  ambitious  parents.  With  the 
dignified  frankness  of  one  whom,  by  driving  him  from 
them,  they  had  taught  to  act  for  himself,  he  calmly  an- 
nounced to  them,  before  making  the  proposal,  his  unalter- 
able determination  to  ask  the  hand  of  Alexina.  Their  un- 
bridled and  impolitic  resentment  drove  the  poor  girl  to 
seek  refuge  at  her  friend  Lucy's — whose  recent  marriage 
afforded  her  a  temporary  home — and  there  it  was  loner 
ere  the  united  eloquence  of  love  and  friendship  could  pre- 
vail on  this  high-spirited — and  I  am  confident,  high- 
born— young  creature  to  enter,  not  clandestinely  indeed, 
but  unsanctioned  by  parental  authority,  a  family  so  unde- 
serving of  her. 

"  There  were  powerful  motives  to  compliance.  On  the 
one  hand,  an  amiable  and  disinterested  lover,  present  com- 
petence at  least,  and  future  aflluence  ;  on  the  other,  ab- 
solute destitution,  or  a  home  either  the  boon  of  charity, 
or  purchased  by  the  most  cruel  of  sacrifices,  that  of  quiet, 
leisure,  and  independence.  How  few  at  si.\teen  would 
long  have  hesitated  ?  And  yet  Alexina  did  so — for,  with 
all  her  gratitude  and  esteem  for  Edmund,  she  had  no  irre- 
sistible passion  to  blind  her  judgment — and  it  was  only 
when,  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  alarming  relapse  of  illness, 
even  his  unfeeling  parents  migraciously  consented  to  the 
match,  that  she  yielded  to  such  generous  and  persevering 
affection,  and  became  surrounded  by  his  barely  civil  rela- 
tions, without  one  connection  of  her  own  to  countenance  the 
trembling  interloper,  the  Avife  of  the  transported  Edmund. 

"  The  lovely,  timid  creature  had  scarce  time  to  cling 
with  all  tlie  devotedness  of  now  genuine  and  unrcprcsscd 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  135 

attachment  to  the  only  being,  save  her  Lucy,  in  all  the 
glittering  circle,  who  would  not  have  repulsed  her  in  dis- 
dain, when  the  fragile  reed  on  which  her  young  hopes 
rested,  withered  from  beneath  her  grasp  !  Exhausted  by 
conflicting  emotions,  and  long  an  unsuspected  prey  to  that 
disease  of  the  heart  which  suddenly  arrests  the  springs  of 
life,  and  freezes  in  a  moment  the  fount  of  consciousness 
and  joy,  Edward  Montolieu  was  carried  from  the  altar  to 
the  grave  !  and  that  sumptuous  wedding-feast,  which  emp- 
ty state  and  hollow  congratulation  had  provided,  was  un- 
tasted  but  by  the  sorrowing  poor,  who  viewed  in  awe- 
struck silence  the  ominous  dole. 

"  The  poor  young  widow  felt  like  one  whose  frame  and 
faculties  a  thunderbolt  has  nearly  annihilated,  and  when 
the  first  few  days  of  speechless  woe  were  past,  the  unfeel- 
ing parents,  hke  too  many  smarting  under  the  reproaches 
of  conscience,  instead  of  deploring  the  harsh  severity 
which  had  first  expatriated  and  then  harassed  their  son, 
sought  to  transfer  the  cause  of  his  early  death  to  a  passion 
which,  had  it  been  less  thwarted,  might  perhaps  have 
prolonged  his  feeble  existence. 

"  Poor  Alexina,  with  the  genero&ity  and  recklessness  of 
youth,  had  instructed  Edmund  not  to  irritate  his  parents 
by  urging  any  settlements  on  one  so  utterly  portionless ; 
to  which  he  at  length  consented,  more  from  the  impres- 
sion of  its  being  an  unavailing  effort,  than  from  an  acqui- 
escence in  her  disinterested  prayers.  She  was,  therefore, 
on  his  death,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  sum  left  by 
him  in  India,  wholly  unprovided  for  ;  and  it  was  a  desti- 
tution in  which  she  could  almost  at  first  rejoice  ;  since  all 
other  connection  between  them  seeming  likely  to  expire 
with  her  poor  husband,  it  would  have  been  bitter  indeed 
to  owe  to  his  proud  relations  an  extorted  provision,  to 


136  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

which  they  might  think  a  couple  of  hours'  union  with  their 
heir  but  an  insufficient  title. 

"  Lucy's  unvarying  sympathy  and  affection  was  again 
her  first  resource  ;  but  the  regiment  of  Captain  Willoughby 
being  under  orders  for  the  West  Indies,  Alexina,  feeling 
that  her  longer  residence  might  estrange  her  friend  from 
her  bereaved  parents,  and  prevent  her  passing  under  their 
roof  her  last  months  in  England,  steadily  insisted  on 
returning  to  the  protection  of  her  maternal  friend,   Miss 

T .     From  her  she  experienced  such   a   reception  as 

her  strong  claims  on  esteem  and  compassion  ensured  ;  and 
while  the  young  widow  imagined  that  her  sr^lender  pittance 
might  prevent  her  from  being  a  burthen  to  her  governess, 
she  forebore,  out  of  respect  for  the  prejudices  of  her  hus- 
band's family,  as  well  as  from  the  hopeless  languor  of 
sorrow,  attempting  to  exercise  her  own  talents  in  that 
line.  But  '  woes,'  says  the  poet,  '  love  a  train  !'  and  there 
came  accounts  from  India  of  the  wreck  of  her  little  all, 
in  one  of  those  extensive  failures  so  common  in  the  East ; 
and  Alexina,  now  as  penniless  as  before  her  inauspicious 
marriage,   insisted  on  testifying  at  once  her  gratitude  and 

independence,  by  devoting  to  Miss  T 's  assistance  the 

talents  she  owed  to  her  care." 

"  And  the  children  ?"  asked  I,  awaking  on  the  cessa- 
tion of  Sophy's  narrative  from  the  deep  reverie  into  which 
its  strantre  tenor  had  thrown  me. 

"  The  children  are  Lucy's — born  just  before  her  quit- 
ting England,  and  resigned,  with  all  the  deep  reluctance 
of  a  young  and  sorely  divided  heart,  to  the  care  of  a  sister 
of  her  husband's — the  voyage,  the  climate,  and  lluir 
tender  age,  presenting  insuperable  obstacles  to  their  going 
out  to  Barbadoes." 

"I  am  under  orders  for  Barbadoes  niysrir,"  exclainu-d  1, 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  137 

"my  dear  Sophy  !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you  that  it  was 
this  which  brought  me  here  to-day.  I  have  got  a  lieu- 
tenant-colonelcy in  a  regiment  stationed  there — probably 
Captain  Willoughby's — and  must  join  in  the  course  of  a 
month  or  six  weeks.  But,"  added  I,  scarce  noticing  poor 
Sophy's  blank  looks  and  exclamations  about  yellow 
fever,  "  I  must  really  see  something  more  of  your  fair 
friend  ;  how  shall  I  manage  it  ?  Could  not  I  offer  to 
carry  out  the  picture  of  the  children  and  letters  to  their 
parents  ?  A  capital  thought !  But  then  this  would  hardly 
entitle  me  to  call  more  than  once,  just  at  the  last,  to  get 
my  dispatches — and  at  a  school  too— €R[lly,  Sophy, 
these  Protestant  nunneries  of  yours  are  almost  as  difficult 
of  access  as  foreign  ones." 

"But,"  said  Sophy,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "the  pic- 
ture is  very  far  from  being  finished  ;  and  the  little  crea- 
tures cannot  come  here  to  sit,  for  they  are  only  recover- 
ing from  the  whooping-cough.  Suppose  I  should  advise 
Mrs.  Montolieu  to  go  and  stay  a  few  days  in  Baker  street, 
where  she  is  a  great  favorite,  to  finish  her  drawing  com- 
fortably ?  You  might  go  there  in  the  character  of  Wil- 
loughby's new  colonel,  without  much  suspicion." 

"  Blessings  on  you  for  the  thought,  my  dear  Sophy  !" 
exclaimed  I;  "for  invention,  one  school-girl  is  worth  a 
score  of  field-officers.  Do  get  this  accomplished,  and  I 
will  put  you  down  in  my  book  for  the  best  husband  in 
my  own  regiment,  or  any  ten  in  the  service  !"  So  saying, 
I  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss,  and  ran  off  to  the  war-office. 

The  move  was  dextrously  and  unsuspiciously  effected. 
The  widow's  anxiety  to  send  her  Lucy  a  faithful  portrait 
of  her  dear  babes,  nearly  equalled  mine  to  see  more  of  the 
fair  artist ;  and,  under  cover  of  a  proper  introduction  to 
the  amiable  sister  of  Captain  Willoughby,  and  her  good  hon- 
7* 


138  THE     MOSS-ROSE.  ^ 

est  fellow  of  a  husband,  I  spent  more  than  one  whole  day, 
and  v'arious  precious  mornings,  in  Baker  street.  At  first 
I  was  to  the  whole  family  only  Frank's  new  colonel,  a  very 
stupid,  good  sort  of  a  man,  who  talked  little,  and  ate  less, 
and  seemed  famous  for  nothing  but  fondness  for  children 
and  drawings. 

The  lovely  widow  exerted  herself  to  bespeak  my  friend- 
ship and  good-will  for  the  absent  objects  of  her  affection  ; 
and  I  was  half  pleased,  half  mortified,  to  observe  with 
what  unsuspecting  bonhomie  she  laid  herself  out  to  enter- 
tain me.  It  was  chiefly,  of  course,  by  speaking  of  Lucy 
and  her  husbffcd,  and  it  was  with  a  warmth  and  sincerity 
of  devotion  which  made  me  transfer  to  brothers  and  sisters- 
in-law  my  former  envy  and  uncharitableness  towards 
married  men. 

In  about  three  weeks,  during  which  I  put  to  the  full 
test  the  hospitality  of  ray  new  friends,  I  began  to  per- 
ceive, on  my  entrance,  a  slight  suppressed  smile  on  their 
good-humored  faces,  and  an  increase  of  pensive  gravity 
on  that  of  their  fair  guest.  The  picture  was  quite 
finished,  and  I  received  unequivocal  hints  that  it  and  the 
letters  now  only  awaited  my  farewell  visit.  In  a  couple 
of  days  Alexina  was  to  retire  to  her  nunnery,  and  as  she 
now  studiously  avoided  our  earlier  Ute-a-Ule,  I  had  no 
resource  but  to  write  her  a  letter,  explaining  the  state  of 
my  heart,  and  urging  the  soldier's  plea  of  necessity  for 
my  precipitation,  and  requesting  to  be  permitted  to 
receive  my  answer  in  person  on  the  morrow.  I  cannot 
pretend  to  remember  what  was  in  the  letter ;  I  only  know 
that  the  paper  was  not  gilt,  and  the  lines  by  no  means 
particularly  even. 

On  the  folloAving  morning  I  sallied  from  my  hotel,  fiir 
earlier  than  decency  warranted  for  paying  a  visit  in  Baker 


A     WEDDING    AT     SCHOOL.  139 

street ;  so  I  determined  to  divert  the  intolerable  suspense 
by  transacting  some  business  about  Charing  Cross.  This 
occupied  me  so  much  longer  than  I  expected,  that  I  was 
flying  in  all  the  agonies  of  impatience  along  the  Hay- 
market  ;  when  I  ran  against  a  young  lieutenant  of  my  late 
regiment,  a  very  fine  lad,  for  whom  I  had  always  had  a 
very  great  fancy,  and  who,  being  equally  partial  to  me, 
had,  I  knew,  been  using  every  exertion  to  raise  the  need- 
ful, to  purchase  a  step  in  the  regiment  I  was  now  about 
to  command. 

"Percival,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "how  goes  it? 
I  have  not  a  moment  to  spare — urgent  business,  a  thou- 
sand miles  off,  at  the  very  west  end  of  the  town."  I  saw 
his  countenance  fall,  poor  lad,  and  could  not  help  observ- 
ing he  looked  pale  and  vexed.  "  Is  anything  the  matter, 
Henry  ?"  asked  I,  still  in  a  great  hurry. 

"  Oh,  not  much,  colonel,"  said  he ;  "  I  see  you  are  in 
haste — only — only" —  and  here  he  hesitated, 

"  Speak  out,  Harry,  do ;  there's  a  good  fellow." 

"Only  some  httle  difficulty,  then,  about  the  money  for 
my  step.  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  out  with 
you"- 

"  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Come  to  me  to-morrow  about  it, 
and  I  will  see  vrhat  can  be  done." 

"But,"  said  the  young  man,  modestly,  "the  money 
should  have  been  lodged  some  days  ago,  and  Greenwood 
says  he  can  wait  no  longer." 

I  looked  at  the  lad,  and  saw  his  whole  soul  was  in  the 
affair ;  and  thinking  my  suit  would  not  prosper  the  less 
for  lending  him  a  lift,  I  performed  one  of  the  few  actions 
I  call  heroic ;  and  turning  back  with  the  best  grace  I  could 
muster,  put  my  arm  in  his,  and  went  into  Drummond's. 

While  I  was  waiting  to  speak  to  one  of  the  partners 


140  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

about  an  immediate  advance  of  the  needful  to  poor  Harry, 
I  saw  a  clerk  twisting  in  every  possible  light,  and  trying 
to  decipher,  one  of  those  nondescript  foreign  letters,  which 
are  to  well-grown,  well-foldgd  English  ones    what    mis- 
shapen dwarfs  are  to  men.     This  one  was  as  broad  as  it 
was  long,  and  had  its  hump-back  all  covered  with  char- 
acters which  might  have  been  Runic  inscriptions,  for  any 
resemblance  they  bore  to  a  Christian  A,  B,  C.     The  man, 
seeing  a  curious  idler  lounging  near  him  in  a  military  sur- 
tout,  handed  it  up  to  me,  saying,   "Perhaps,  sir,  you 
might  be  able,  from  your  knowledge  of  foreign  hands,  to 
throw  some  light  on  this  direction."     There  was  an  outer 
envelope,  on  v?hich  might  be  plainly  enough  read,  in  a 
cramped  chevaux  de  ///se-like  French  hand,  this   some- 
what primitive  address  :    "  A  Monsieur  Drummond,  Ban- 
quier  tres  renomme,  a  Londres."     So  far  all  was  well ; 
and  the  renowned  banker  being  about  as  well  known  in 
London  as  Dr.  Boerhaave  in  the  world,  both  letters  had 
found  their  appointed  destination.     But  within  the  envel- 
ope was  a  sealed  billet,  scribbled  all  over,  as  aforesaid, 
with  characters  which  from  their  dissimilarity  to  any  Eu- 
ropean scrawl  I  had  ever  seen,  I  immediately  set  down  for 
Tartar  hieroglyphics  from  Russia — which  mighty  empire 
having  pertinaciously  retained  a  sli/le  of  its  own,  chooses 
to  have  an  alphabet  also. 

The  words  expressed  by  these  hyperborean  symbols,  I 
began  to  perceive  were  French ;  and  gathering  erudition 
as  I  proceeded,  like  many  a  sage  decipherer,  I  distinctly 
traced,  "A  son  Excellence  Mademoiselle" — but  beyond 
this  rather  anomalous  union  of  titles^  all  was  involved  in 
the  hopeless  darkness  that  attends  guessers  at  jiroper 
names.  I  had  lately,  however,  seen  some  Russian  coins, 
bought  by  a  brother-officer  of  a  French  soldier  returned 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL,  141 

from  Moscow,  and  the  characters  composirg  the  Avord 
"  Alexander"  happened  to  be  fresh  in  my  memory.  "VVilh 
this  clue  I  put  together  pot-hook  after  pot-hook ;  and 
found,  with  no  small  emotion,  the  result  to  be  Alexina ! 
The  name  might  be,  nay  -was,  a  common  one  in  Russia,  es- 
pecially of  late  years  ;  yet  I  could  not  spell  and  put  it  to- 
gether without  feeling  a  revulsion  in  my  whole  frame,  and 
as  if  it  could  belong  but  to  one  being  in  the  world.  How 
did  I  labor  to  apply  my  scanty  stock  of  Russian  lore  to 
this  unspeakably  important  surname  which  succeeded  ! 
But  in  vain.  That  it  began  with  F  was  all  I  could  satis- 
factorily ascertain  ;  but  the  clerk  and  I,  between  us,  were 
enabled,  by  his  naming  over  various  eminent  Russian  mer- 
chants, to  hazard  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  one  to  whose  care 
the  inner  letter  had  been  so  mystically  addressed. 

This  gentleman,  the  clerk  told  me,  was  no  more,  and 
had  died  deeply  involved  in  circumstances,  exactly  coin- 
ciding with  Sophy's  account  of  Alexina's  guardian.  The 
case  now  became  terribly  critical,  and  I  was  just  about  to 
suggest  what  I  knew  on  the  subject,  when  a  partner  came 
in,  accompanied  by  a  feeble,  tottering  old  man,  with  the 
air  of  one  of  those  respectable,  almost  dignified-looking 
valets,  or  maitres  d'hotel,  belonging  to  the  old  refjime  :  his 
hair  queued  and  powdered,  and  his  dress  scrupulously 
adhering  to  a  fashion  unknown  in  England  for  the  last 
half  century, 

"Mr.  B ,"  said   the  banker,  addressing  himself  to 

the  clerk,  "  has  anything  been  made  out  about  that  letter 
which  came  some  weeks  ago  from  abroad  ?  This  person 
is  just  arrived  in  England,  and  looks  to  us  for  a  clue  to 
discover  a  young  lady  to  whorn,  he  says,  his  previous  let- 
ter was  addressed." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  clerk,  in  some  confusion,  "  the  letter 


142  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

was  unfortunate! 3'^  laid  aside  till  this  morning,  when,  with 
the  assistance  of  this  gentleman,  I  have  just  succeeded  in 
ascertaininop  the  name  of  the  house  to  whose  care  the  bil- 
let  is  addressed.  It  is  to  be  feared,  however,  that  this 
will  not  greatly  advance  matters,  as  Mr.  Livingstone,  you 
are  aware,  died  some  years  ago,  and  his  establishment  is 
entirely  broken  up." 

"  That  is  very  unlucky,"  said  the  banker  to  the  clerk ; 
while  the  old  man,  only  gathering  from  the  blank  looks  of 
both  a  result  unfavorable  to  his  hopes,  cast  up  his  eyes  to 
Heaven,  with  an  affecting  mixture  of  sorrow  and  resigna- 
tion. "  My  poor  master  !"  ejaculated  he  in  French,  and 
turned  away  to  hide  a  tear, 

"But,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "we  have  made  out  the 
young  lady's  Christian  name,  and  this  gentleman  seems  to 
think" — 

"  And  is  the  surname  all  that  puzzles  you  ?"  asked  Mr. 

D ;   "  surely  that  can  be  at  once  supplied  by  this 

good  old  man." 

The  question  was  put  in  French,  and  promptly  an- 
swered :  "  Fedoroff,  only  daughter  of  my  master,  Count 
Fedoroff  and  an  English  lady,  his  late  Avife." 

What  a  revolution  did  these  few  words  make  in  my  re- 
lative situation  with  Alexina  !  I  felt  as  if  all  was  forever 
at  an  end  between  us  ;  but,  I  hope,  not  the  less  disposed 
to  forward  the  inquiries  of  a  sorrowing  parent,  and  restore 
her  to  his  arms.  1  brieily,  and  am  sure  very  incoherently, 
stated  what  1  knew  of  her  history  and  residence  ;  and 
while  the  transported  old  steward  Hew  on  the  wings  of 
duty  and  affection  to  cheer  his  master's  heart  with  the 
tidings,  I  set  oft",  summoning  all  the  courage  and  disinter- 
estedness I  could  muster,  to  prepare  the  mind  of  his 
daughter  for  so  overwhelming  a  discovery — to  build  up,  I 


A     "WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  143 

feared,  on  the  ruins  of  my  own  baseless  fabric  of  happi- 
ness the  superstructure  of  hers. 

This  daughter,  the  long-lost  and  wept-for  heiress  of 
Count  Fedoroff,  to  marry  a  moderately  endowed  English 
soldier !  to  go  to  the  West  Indies,  or  elsewhere,  and  as 
the  old  song  has  it,  "  lie  in  a  barrack !"  Impossible ! 
Once  I  was  selfish  enough  to  wish  the  knot  had  been  al- 
ready  tied,  but  I  was  soon  myself  again,  and  could  re- 
joice that  no  answer  had  yet,  in  any  degree,  committed 
her  to  unite  her  fate  with  mine ;  and,  on  the  word  of  an 
honest  man,  by  the  time  I  knocked  at  the  door  in  Baker 
street,  I  felt  only  the  delight  of  conferring  happiness, 
where  I  had  so  fondly  anticipated  receiving  it. 

My  air  of  conscious  exultation,  when  first  ushered  into 

the  room,  where  sat  Alexina  with  her  friend,  Mrs.  F , 

must,  I  am  sure,  have  appeared  to  the  last  degree  coxcom- 
ical  and  absurd.  It  soon  gave  place  to  more  selfish  and 
bitter  feelings,  on  beholding  again,  and  with  no  symptoms 
of  severity  on  her  lovely  countenance,  the  creature  I  was 

about  tacitly  to   relinquish  for  life.      Mrs.  F rose  to 

leave  the  room  ;  and,  though  fearful  the  emotion  I  should 
excite  might  render  her  presence  desirable,  I  could  not, 
for  the  life  of  me,  interfere  to  detain  her. 

"  I  fear,  Mrs.  Montolieu,"  said  I,  in  great  agitation,  "  I 
am  much  later  than  you  might  justly  have  had  reason  to 
expect,  but  the  business  which  detained  me  was  of  a 
nature" — 

"  Oh,  no  apology  is  necessary.  Colonel  Donovan,"  said 
she,  with  the  unaffected  modesty  and  gentleness  which 
characterized  her  whole  deportment.  "  I  must  have  little 
confidence  indeed  in  the  flattering  sentiments  expressed  in 
your  letter  of  yesterday,  to  suppose  you  would  voluntarily 
defer  ascertaining  mine.     I  can  only  assure  you" — 


144  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Assure  me  of  nothing,  my  dear  madam,"  interr\ipted 
I,  "if  you  would  have  me  keep  my  senses,  and  go 
through  my  duty  as  a  man  of  honor  should  do.  Forget 
that  anything  has  passed  between  us — that  I  ever  had 
the  presumption  to  aspire  to  your  hand." 

I  really  believe  this  humble,  long-depressed  child  of 
misfortune  thought  me  suddenly  deranged,  so  like  bitter 
mockery  did  my  expressions  appear. 

"  I  am  not  mad,  indeed,"  said  I,  reading  her  thoughts, 
"  though  I  have  had  much  to  make  me  so  this  morning ; 
but  only  the  bewildered  herald  of  a  very  astonishing,  and, 
let  me  add,  delightful  discovery  relative  to  yourself." 

"  To  me  !"  she  repeated,  with  an  accent  of  unbounded 
surprise.  "  I  thought,  till  yesterday,  nothing  could  occur 
to  break  the  tenor  of  my  monotonous  existence."  Here 
a  soft  blush  tinged  her  pale  cheek;  and  it  went  to  my 
very  heart  to  see  that  the  sweet  soul  was  mortified  by  my 
want  of  curiosity  to  know  how  she  had  felt  yesterday,  and 
was  feeling  to-day. 

"  Alexina!"  said  I,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  feeling 
the  brotherly  right  so  to  call  her ;  "  if  I  could  avail  my- 
self of  your  unsuspecting  innocence,  I  should  be  a  villain. 
Yesterday  you  thought  yourself,  and  I  thought  you,  alone 
in  the  world  ;  and  on  that  supposition,  what,  we  might 
both  have  done  is  now  as  if  it  had  never  been.  You  are 
no  loncer — thanks  be  to  a  merciful  Providence  ! — a  friend- 
less  orphan.  You  have  a  father,  the  sole  comfort  of 
whose  declining  age  is  the  vague,  and  till  this  day 
almost  relinquished  hope,  of  folding  you  once  more  in 
his  arms." 

She  grew  very  pale — trembled  violently,  but,  to  my  in- 
finite relief,  did  not  faint  quite  away.  There  was  water 
on  the  table  beside  her  drawings ;  I  sprinkled  some  of  it 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL 


145 


on  her  face,  and  she  soon  revived  ;  Tor  the  swoon  of  joy 
carries  its  own  cordial  witli  it. 

When  the  pious  effusions  of  a  full  heart  to  the  Father 
of  the  fatherless  had  given  place  to  less  sacred  emotions, 
her  first  words  were  :  "You  will  assist  me  in  making  up 
to  this  dear  father,  for  our  long,  long  separation,  will  you 
not  ?  But  perhaps,"  added  she,  more  gravely,  the  pride 
of  woman  taking  alarm  at  my  continued  silence,  "  per- 
haps there  is  something  in  my  father's  character  and  cir- 
cumstances which  may  have  produced  a  change  in  your 
intentions.  If  so" — and  her  blush  was  no  longer  one  of 
conscious  timidity. 

"  There  is,  indeed,  everything  in  your  father's  situation 
to  make  me  7-etract  ray  rash  proposal  of  yesterday.  When 
it  was  made,  I  felt  a  lover's  exquisite  sympathy  for  beau- 
ty in  misfortune,  and  a  pride  in  placing  competence  at 
least  within  her  reach.  You  are  the  daughter  and  heiress 
of  a  proud  Russian  noble  ;  and  Jack  Donovan  has  only  to 
say,  '  God  bless  you  both  together  !'  and  try  to  forget 
his  short  dream  of  happiness  amid  a  life  of  duty  and 
vicissitude." 

"  I  too  have  duties,  Colonel  Donovan,"  answered  she, 
her  calm  serenity  not  in  the  least  impaired  by  the  brilliant 
prospect  I  had  set  before  her;  "  that,  to  my  father,  I 
trust  I  shall  never  forget ;  and  oh,  what  delightful  arreais 
of  love  I  shall  have  to  bestow  on — I  fear  from  your  sad 
silence — my  sole  remaining  parent !  But  circumstances, 
melancholy  enough,  Heaven  knows  !  have  given  me  early 
independence;  and  I  should  deserve  to  be  spurned  by  my 
new-found  parent,  could  his  rank  or  fortune  for  one  mo- 
ment make  me  forget  your  conduct  when  I  had  neither; 
Read  that  note,  which,  in  distrust  of  my  nerves  for  a  per- 
sonal interview,  I  wrote  last  night,  to  be  delivered  to  you 


146  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

this  morniiifr-  The  sentiments  it  contains  misrht  have 
gathered  added  strength  and  energy  from  what  I  have 
now  heard  of  our  relative  position  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  see 
them  as  they  emanated  from  the  unconscious  fullness  of  a 
grateful  heart.  Take  them  as  my  unalterable  answer. 
Were  my  father  capable  of  sacrificing  his  child's  honor 
and  happiness  to  pride  or  ambition,  I  might  tearfully  re- 
quest you  to  lend  her  to  him  for  the  remnant  of  a  closing 
existence  ;  but  it  would  be  to  return,  strengthened  by 
filial  duty,  to  other  and  perhaps  dearer  ties.  Donovan, 
I  am  yours  irrevocably — bear  me  witness,  ray  vows  are 
sealed  before  their  confirmation  can  possibly  expose  me  to 
the  charsfe  of  disobedience." 

I  had  only  time  for  incoherent  expressions  of  admiration 
for  this  noble  giil,  and  resolution  to  abide  by  her  'father's 
determination  ;  when,  as  I  had  arranged  with  Nicolai,  the 
old  steward,  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door,  out  of  which 
I  saw  him  step  first,  and  proffer  his  assistance  to  a  fine, 
noble-looking  wreck  of  a  man,  who,  enfeebled  by  infirmity 
and  emotion,  could  scarcely  ascend  the  staircase.  I  went 
to  detain  him  a  moment  below,  while  I,  in  two  words,  ex- 
plained the  matter  to  Mrs.  F and  to  my  sister  Sophy, 

who,  burning  to  know  the  result  of  my  proposals,  had  ia- 
vitcd  herself  to  pass  the  day  in  Baker  street. 

Their  sudden  ac(|uaintance  with  these  delightful  tidings 
gave  to  both  of  them  an  appearance  of  such  equal  agita- 
tion with  their  fair  friend,  that  nothing  short  of  parental 
instinct  could  have  enabled  him  to  distinguish  her.  When 
the  fine  old  man  entered,  his  while  hair  flowing  on  either 
side  of  his  woe-worn  countenance,  all  involuntarily  rose. 
He  seemed  bewildered  by  the  presence  of  so  many 
females,  and  in  danger  of  sinking  under  the  scene.  Sophy, 
who   happened  to  be  nearest  the  door,   having  made   a 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL 


147 


hasty  movement  to  save  him  from  falling,  he  gazed,  for  a 
moment,  steadfastly  in  her  face,  then  shook  his  head,  and, 
pushing  her  not  ungently  aside,  made  another  step  or  two 
forward.  It  was  to  receive  in  his  arms  and  heart  his  own 
Alexina,  whom,  in  the  first  transports  of  recognition,  he 
called  by  the  name  of  her  long-lost  English  mother.  We 
left  the  parent  and  child  to  their  own  unutterable  emotions, 
and  indemnified  ourselves  by  sharing  the  transports  of  old 
Nicolai,  who,  after  kissing  with  passionate  devotion  the 
hand  of  his  master's  daughter,  withdrew,  and  gave  us  the 
details  of  their  long  separation  and  its  cause. 

They  were  much  too  long  and  complicated  to  be  repeat- 
ed here.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  capricious  tyranny  of 
Paul,  and  his  wayward  antipathy  to  everything  even  re- 
motely connected  with  England,  involved  Count  Fedoroff 
in  sudden  and  apparently  hopeless  disgrace,  and  a  banish- 
ment to  Siberia  ;  amid  the  first  shock  of  which  the  unfor- 
tunate mother,  before  accompanying  her  husband,  em- 
braced with  avidity  the  opportunity  afforded  by  the  hurried 
flight  of  her  countrymen  from  St.  Petersburgh,  to  send  her 
only  child,  a  puny,  tender  infant,  wholly  unfit  for  the  hor- 
ror of  a  Siberian  journey,  to  seek  an  asylum  in  England  . 
An  ample  supply  of  money  and  jewels,  sufficient  to  defray 
her  education  for  years,  accompanied  the  infant ;  but  as 
the  whole  transaction — the  affair  of  a  few  brief,  feverish 
moments  of  maternal  alarm — was  conducted  by  Madame 
Fedoroff  after  her  husband's  arrest,  and  while  deprived  of 
communication  with  him,  the  distressing  circumstances  of 
their  reunion  prevented  his  being  immediately  informed  of 
the  name  of  the  merchant  to  whom  his  child  was  to  be 
consigned ;  and  before  he  aroused  himself  to  make  the 
alas  !  indispensable  inquiry,  his  poor  wife's  reason  had 
given  way  under  the  united  evils  of  exile  and  bereave- 


148 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


ment.  For  years  after  his  recall  from  banishment,  did 
Count  Federoff  wander  with  his  harmless  and  interesting 
maniac,  in  vain  quest  alike  of  restoring  intellect  and  tid- 
ings of  their  child.  Not  the  slightest  clue  or  tiace  could  . 
ever  be  elicited  from  the  poor  countess,  till,  on  her  death- 
bed, a  few  months  ago,  she  had,  in  such  a  lucid  interval 
as  frequently  precedes  dissolution,  distinctly  pronounced 
in  the  hearing  of  Nicolai,  the  name  of  Livingstone,  con- 
necting it,  though  incoherently,  with  that  of  Alexina. 

The  judicious  old  man,  fearing  to  raise,  on  such  slender 
ground,  false  hopes  in  his  aged  and  grief-worn  master, 
wrote,  without  communicating  his  intentions  to  any  one, 
the  mysterious  billet  which  it  was  my  fate  to  decipher ; 
but,  after  waiting  for  some  time  its  result,  in  intolerable 
suspense,  he  heard,  with  delight,  the  poor  Coimt  resolve 
on  a  voyage  to  England,  and  felt  renewed  hope  in  the  pur- 
pose of  personal  investigations. 

Their  result  has  been  already  mentioned,  and  it  only 
remains  for  me  to  tell,  in  a  few  words,  the  brief  sequel  of 
my  soldier's  tale.  Count  Fedoroff  had  seen  too  much  of 
the  power  of  sorrow  to  rob  the  eye  of  meaning,  and  the 
cheek  of  bloom,  to  allow  its  worm  to  prey  twice  upon  a 
daughter'  heart.  Had  a  peasant  gained  her  affections  in 
her  days  of  friendless  obscuiity,  I  verily  believe  the  chas- 
tened spii  it  of  the  good  old  man  would  have  hailed  him 
with  gj-ateful  approbation.  He  was  not,  therefore,  dis- 
posed to  exclude  from  his  heart  a  soldier  of  ancient  fami- 
ly and  unblemished  reputation.  When  I  next  saw  Alex- 
ina's  letter  of  acceptance,  which,  precious  as  it  was,  1  had 
insisted  on  replacing,  before  her  father's  entrance,  in  her 
almost  insensible  hand,  it  bore,  in  addition  to  her  dear  sig- 
nature, the  trembling  ratification  of  a  parent. 

What  a  contrast  between  Alexina's  former  nuptials,  with 


A     WEDDING     AT     SCHOOL.  149 

their  extorted  consent  and  half  reluctant  celebration,  their 
"cold  marriage  tables"  and  "funeral-baked"  meats,  so 
strangely  interwoven,  and  our  blissful  union  some  months 
after,  surrounded  by  friends,  purchased  and  endeared  by 
years  of  dignified  suffering  ! 

There  was  the  old  Count,  his  frame  invigorated,  and  his 
affections  renovated  ;  his  faithful  domestic,  reflecting  his 

master's  every  feeling,  and  partaking  his  every  joy  ;  F 

and  his  kind-hearted  wife,  my  darling  Sophy,  and  last,  not 
least,  Luc}'  and  her  husband  ;  for,  as  the  picture  could  no 
longer  go  to  the  West  Indies,  at  least  under  my  auspices, 
the  mountain  came  to  Mahomet.  1  managed  Harry  Per- 
cival's  exchange  into  Willoughby's  place,  and  while  he  was 
wooing  and  winning  his  West  India  flame,  while  "  all  Bar- 
badoes'  bells  did  ring,"  those  of  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  rung  out  their  merriest  peals,  in  honor  of  Jack 
Donovan  and  his  little  Russian  widow. 

Count  Fedoroff  ended  his  life  in  Britain ;  and  his  daugh- 
ter made  with  the  nearest  male  heir  an  arrangement,  by 
which  she  exchanged  slaves  and  snow  at  the  Pole  for 
cash  and  comfort  in  England. 


WINTER. 


BY     MES.     E.     P.     H. 


Still  here  ?  old  Winter  !  thou  tarriest  long 

In  this  hill-girt  valley  of  ours  ; 
And  dost  frighten  away  all  the  birds  of  song, 

And  retard  the  early  flowers. 
Thy  cold,  pale  smile,  and  thy  chilling  breath 

Have  stiffened  each  purling  rill ; 
Each  roof  is  decked  with  an  icy  wreath ; 

Yet  Winter!  we  like  thee  still. 

Thy  merry  bells  and  sounds  of  mirth. 

Of  frolic,  and  noise,  and  glee  ; 
Thy  bright  fires  on  the  cheerful  hearth. 

All  have  their  charms  for  me. 
And  when  thy  shrill  voice  is  heard  in  the  blast, 

And  the  sleet  and  snow-flakes  come. 
We  list  to  the  storm  as  it  circles  past, 

And  prize  our  own  dear  home. 

Thy  locks  are  white,  old  Frost-king,  now  ; 

The  morning  dews  are  congealed, 
And  glitter  like  gems  above  thy  brow, 

And  thy  beauty  is  all  revealed. 
But  tread  not  too  near  the  green  robe  of  Spring, 

Or  thy  purity  will  decay  ; 
And  her  sunny  smiles  fresh  joys  will  bring, 

When  thou  slialt  have  passed  away. 


PROSPECT     HILL 


BY     THE     EDITRESS. 


When  age,  with  its  chill  pulsations,  is  creeping  over  the 
spirit  that  was  once  warm  and  buoyant ;  or  when  the 
heart,  though  young  in  years,  has  been  estranged  from  the 
pleasures  of  earth,  and  the  sad  countenance  tells  of  inward 
suffering  ;  when  we  dare  not  think  of  the  present,  or  an- 
ticipate the  future  ;  it  is  natural,  if  not  beneficial,  at  such 
seasons,  to  turn  to  memory's  bright  pages,  and  visit  in 
imagination  those  spots  to  which  we  have  been  most  en- 
deared in  by-gone  days.  For  a  while,  the  mind  luxuriates 
in  temporary  forgetfulness  of  the  sad  change  ;  we  breathe 
again  the  same  pure  atmosphere ;  see  the  same  smiling 
faces  ;  recognize  the  lofty  trees  whose  verdant  branches 
afforded  a  charming  retirement  ;  and  even  the  little  flow- 
eret, almost  unheeded,  yields  its  fragrance.  One  of  those 
charming  places  is  now  before  my  mind's  eye. 

A  few  paces  out  of  one  of  those  large  cities  which  bor- 
der upon  the  majestic  Hudson,  is  an  eminence  known  to 
those  who  reside  in  that  vicinity  by  the  name  of  "  Pros- 
pect Hill."  And  well  indeed  it  deserves  that  name  ;  for 
a  spectator  from  its  summit  may  behold  a  part  of  five 
States  in  the  distance ;  while  nearer,  the  dense  city,  with 
its  domes  and  spires,  may  be  seen  at  a  glance ;  and  the 
noble  river,  bearing  gallant  barks  upon  its  bosom,  resem- 
bles a  broad  white  ribbon,  till,  with  a  sudden  bend  behind 
the  mountain,  it  disappears  from  view.      The  habitations 


152 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


of  numerous  wealthy  and  respectable  Dutch  inhabitants 
are  scattered  upon  the  east  and  south  sides  ;  and,  save 
near  the  top,  the  liill  is  covei-ed  with  beautiful  and  venera- 
ble trees,  among  which  the  cedar  is  eminently  conspicuous. 
I  speak  of  it  as  it  was,  when  with  youthful  friends  I  as- 
cended it  to  behold  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  as 
he  appeared  in  splendor  above  the  horizon.  Time  may 
have  laid  his  rude  hand  upon  it  since,  and  despoiled  it  of 
its  native  wildness  and  romantic  beauty  ;  but  methinks  it 
should  have  been  sacred,  and  m(tn  should  not  impiously 
have  sought  to  improve  that  which  the  Creator  had  so 
nicely  finished.  When  I  last  visited  it,  after  an  absence 
of  some  years,  it  was  in  company  with  several  beloved  re- 
latives and  friends,  who  gazed  upon  the  charming  prospect 
with  enthusiastic  delight,  but  most  of  whom  are  now  takin<T 
tlieir  last  earthly  sleep  within  the  precincts  of  the  cold 
tomb.  Even  then  the  hand  of  the  spoiler  had  commenced 
his  depredations,  and  threatened  to  level  the  fine  forest 
trees  to  the  ground.  No  wonder  that  the  poor  red  man, 
after  being  driven  from  his  wild  home  by  an  insatiate  rival, 
weeps  at  the  change,  when  by  stealth  he  revisits  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood.  The  wigwam  is  gone ;  thai  might  be 
rebuilt;  but  the  thick  grove  where  he  had  chased  the  wild 
deer  from  his  retreat — the  lu.xuriant  vine,  beneath  which 
he  had  received  the  love- pledge  of  his  dark-eyed  maid — 
and  even  the  hallowed  oak,  which  marked  tlie  rude  grave 
of  his  chieftain  father,  and  the  wild  rose,  whose  branches 
overspread  the  last  resting-place  of  his  queenly  mother — 
all,  all  have  disappeared  before  the  a.\e  of  the  white  man. 
He  gazes  on  the  scene  of  such  fearful  desolation ;  wipes 
the  unbidden  tear,  Avhich  may  not  be  seen  except  by  the 
Great  Spirit ;  and  silentl}',  but  with  speed,  retraces  his 
footsteps  to  the  far  West,  to  await  renewed  pursuit,     Hu- 


PROSPECT     HILL.  153 

manity  must  sympathize  with  the  persecuted  Indians  ; 
though  their  skins  are  tinged  with  a  deeper,  richer  hue 
than  ours,  they  may  not  be  inferior  in  the  scale  of  exist- 
ence, if  afforded  opportunities  to  cultivate  those  talents 
and  fine  feelings  which  it  is  evident  they  possess. 

Long  before  the  popular  seminary,  Avhich  stands  in  dig- 
nified retirement  upon  the  northern  side  of  Prospect  Hill, 
was  erected,  Moreena,  the  bright  "  Morning  Star"  of  her 
tribe,  glided  fearlessly  about  her  father's  wigwam,  near 
that  lovely  spot,  or  paddled  her  light  canoe  upon  the 
glassy  surface  of  the  Hudson.  The  countenance  of  her 
sire  was  at  times  dark  and  terrible,  for  the  pale-faces  had 
already  trespassed  upon  his  wild  domains ;  and  three 
miles  eastward  had  cleared  a  few  acres  and  constructed 
two  dwellings,  after  their  own  fashion.  Yet  the  features 
of  Wish-la-ya  were  not  always  repulsive.  When  caressed 
by  the  playful  Moreena,  or  gazing  upon  his  bosom  com- 
panion, the  gentle  Soonsetah,  his  eye  beamed  with  love 
and  tenderness,  and  their  home  was  the  seat  of  domestic 
felicity. 

One  day,  while  the  mother  and  daughter  were  employed 
in  weaving  gay-colored  quills  in  fanciful  figures  upon 
moccasins,  to  trade  with  their  intruding  neighbors,  the 
former,  anxiously  scanning  her  companion's  countenance, 
said — 

"  Why  wears  my  daughter  the  sad  face  of  the  warrior- 
chieftain  ?  Cannot  Soonsetah,  the  '  Sunny  Eye,'  light  her 
to  happiness  ?" 

"  Moreena  loves  her  mother,  but" — 

"  Ha !  has  the  young  Mohawk  turned  from  the  Morn- 
ing Star,  and  left  her  in  loneliness  to  sigh  in  the  hut  of 
Wish-la-ya  ?" 

"  Monadnoc  is  good  ;  his  dark  eye  looks  on  me  with  af- 
8 


154  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

fection.  In  war  he  is  terrible,  but  not  so  when  he  smokes 
the  calumet  of  peace,  or  lays  the  panther  at  thy  daughter's 
feet." 

Then  taking  from  its  hiding-place  a  splendid  broach, 
and  giving  it  to  her  mother,  she  informed  her  that  on  the 
previous  day,  while  pursuing  the  gold-fish  in  her  birch  ca- 
noe, and  gathering  the  pond-lilies  which  grew  in  profu- 
sion, two  white  men  appeared  on  the  bank,  one  of  whom 
accosted  her  rudely,  but  the  other — whom  she  had  met 
before — in  silver  tones  asked  her  acceptance  of  the  bril- 
liant ornament,  and  desired  her  to  remember  that  all  the 
white  men  were  not  her  enemies ;  and  promised  if  she 
would  forsake  her  native  wilds  to  unite  with  civilized  so- 
ciety, he  would  insure  her  happiness. 

The  countenance  of  the  mother  fell. 

"Would  the  pale-face  deprive  us  of  thee  too,  my  be- 
loved ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  he  take  our  hunting-grounds 
and  destroy  our  warriors  ?  Sad  will  be  the  home  of 
Wish-la-ya  and  Soonsetah  if  the  Morning  Star  shine  not  in 
their  dwelling." 

"  She  will  not  leave  thee,  ray  mother !  The  Sunny 
Eye  and  the  Morning  Star  shall  make  light  the  dwelling 
of  the  chief,  and  he  shall  be  happy.  Soon  the  brave  Mo- 
nadnoc  will  join  us ;  he  shall  counsel  Moreena  about  the 
gift  of  the  white  man." 

At  this  moment  the  father  entered,  bearing  upon  his 
shoulders  a  fine  deer,  which  he  had  just  killed;  and  hav- 
ing thrown  it  down  he  seated  himself  in  a  dark  corner,  as 
wont  to  do  when  his  heart  was  oppressed.  For  a  long 
time  not  a  word  was  uttered,  for  the  other  inmates  felt 
that  there  was  a  fearful  struggle  in  the  breast  of  the  red 
man.     At  length  Soonsetah  timidly  asked — 

"  Is  Wish-la-ya  wearied  from  the  chase  ?     Let  him  re- 


PROSPECTHILL.  155 

pose  on  this  soft  buffalo  skin,  dressed  with  fresh  flowers, 
and  we  will  watch  his  slumbers." 

No  reply. 

"Has  my  father  no  smile  for  Moreena  ?"  asked  his 
daughter,  gently  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"  Alas,  my  child  !  they  would  take  thee  from  me.  The 
fierce  hawk  would  take  the  gentle  dove  to  his  nest,  and 
devour  her.     Ask  me  no  more." 

The  cause  of  the  Indian's  grief  may  be  explained.  In 
his  hunting  excursion  he  had  encountered  young  Roe,  the 
giver  of  the  broach,  who,  charmed  with  the  beauty  of  the 
dark  maid,  asked  her  in  marriage  of  the  stern  father.  He 
replied  : 

"  Can  the  pale-face  love  her  as  her  kindred  do  ?  Can 
he  defend  her  when  the  war-whoop  sounds  through  the 
forest,  and  when  the  enemy  is  near  ?  Or  when  the  cata- 
mount leaps  from  his  lair,  will  he  tear  it  asunder  for  her 
safety  ?  No ;  his  blood  is  white ;  his  heart  weak ;  let 
him  choose  a  maiden  from  his  own  nation.  Moreena  stays 
with  her  tribe  till  she  is  given  to  the  red  chieftain." 

After  much  had  been  said,  it  was  decided  that  when  the 
next  sun  had  attained  the  meridian,  each  accompanied  by 
a  friend,  should  try  his  skill  with  his  own  weapon,  and 
stand  as  a  mark  for  the  other.  If  Wish-la-ya  was 
wounded.  Roe  was  to  claim  the  hand  of  his  daughter  ; 
should  the  reverse  prove  the  case,  the  offer  was  never  to 
be  renewed. 

•Long  and  lonely  was  that  night  spent  in  silent  anguish 
by  the  trio.  At  length  the  day  dawned,  and  Moreena, 
unobserved,  departed  to  ascend  the  hill,  and  enjoy  the 
balmy  fragrance  of  the  morning  air.  Glowing  in  native 
beauty,  her  glossy  black  hair  parted  above  the  forehead 
and  falling  gracefully  upon  her  shoulders,  bound  only  by 


156 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


a  wreath  of  evergreens  and  beads  tastefully  entAvined, 
which  had  been  placed  there  the  day  before ;  her  dress 
simple,  displaying  her  arms,  which  were  ornamented  with 
beads  of  divers  colors  ;  she  stood  forth  a  fine  subject  for 
the  artist. 

"  Why  lingers  Monadnoc  ?  has  he  sounded  the  war- 
whoop,  and  gone  forth  with  the  tomahawk  ?  The  moon 
has  waxed  and  waned,  yet  he  comes  not." 

"  Is  the  bright  Morning  Star  already  here,  to  shine  upon 
the  tired  warrior  ?"  and  the  youth  was  in  an  instant  be- 
fore her,  and  his  offerings  at  her  feet.  "  Monadnoc  offers 
his  gifts ;  will  the  daughter  of  the  Sunny  Eye  accept 
them  ?  He  comes  to  win  his  bride.  Will  Moreena  leave 
the  home  of  her  father,  and  sit  in  the  wigwam  of  her  hus- 
band, where  the  vine  grows  over  it,  and  the  purple  clus- 
ters are  seen  among  the  thick  leaves  ?" 

The  reddening  cheek  and  downcast  eye  gave  assent, 
clearly  as  the  words  in  return.  But  why  listen  to  the 
tale  of  love,  or  pry  into  the  secrets  of  the  heart  ? 

Before  they  parted,  the  young  chief,  stretching  his  arms 
toward  the  extended  prospect,  said,  "  Seest  thou,  my  love, 
the  wide  hunting-grounds  of  the  red  man,  far  as  the  eye 
can  look  ?  The  time  will  be  when  the  pale-face  shall  call 
it  all  his  own,  and  no  foot-place  shall  be  found  for  the  poor 
Indian  ;  but  Hobomok,  who  dwells  beyond  the  great  wa- 
ters, shall  take  the  good  red  man  home  to  his  green  fields, 
where  the  tomahawk  shall  be  buried  deep ;  and  ho  shall 
smoke  with  the  (rreat  Spirit." 

Prophetic  words  !  Short  was  the  period  before  they 
were  fultilled. 

The  hour  arrived  when  the  prowess  of  men  was  to  de- 
cide the  destiny  of  the  innocent  Indian  girl.  They  met ; 
the  signal   was  given ;    an  arrow   from   the   trusty  bow 


PROSPECT     HILL. 


157 


winged  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  unfortunate  young  Eng- 
lishman, at  the  same  moment  that  a  ball  from  his  fusee 
was  directed  to  the  Indian  chief.  Soonsetah,  rushing  for- 
ward to  save  her  husband,  received  the  fatal  charge,  and, 
in  an  instant,  the  Sunny  Eye  was  closed  forever !  Let  us 
drop  a  curtain  over  the  scene. 

Wish-la-ya  buried  his  preserver  beneath  the  branches 
of  a  young  elm,  a  short  distance  from  his  now  dark  dwell- 
ing ;  arid  accompanied  by  his  daughter  and  the  young 
chief,  wandered  West,  where  the  white  man's  axe  was 
not  heard. 

Though  the  same  place  be  still  used  as  a  sacred  recep- 
tacle for  the  dead  by  the  present  inhabitants  of  the  soil, 
yet  the  lone  elm,  which  was  spared  many  years  for  its 
beauty,  is  no  longer  found ;  and  the  bones  which  rested 
beneath  it. have  lona:  since  mouldered  into  kindred  dust. 
Perhaps  persons  residing  in  that  vicinity  may  have  ob- 
served, at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  a  thick  mist  rising 
from  the  earth  in  that  burial-place,  and  gradually  con- 
densing, till,  with  a  little  aid  from  fancy,  the  form  of  a  tall 
female  is  seen,  with  outstretched  arms,  which  soon  expands 
and  is  dissipated  in  air.  A  superstitious  mind  might  sup- 
pose it  to  be  the  spirit  of  Soonsetah,  rising  to  declare  ven- 
geance against  the  persecutors  of  her  race. 
■  Such  are  the  changes  of  this  world.  A  few  short 
years  and  Prospect  Hill  will  have  lost  its  present  beauty, 
and  our  nation,  hke  that  of  the  aborigines,  shall  be  known 
no  more. 


BURIAL   OF   THE  CONSUMPTIVE. 


BY     MBS.E.A.CURTISS     HULCE. 


Come,  list !  I'll  tell  tliee  of  a  burial  scene  ; 
'Tis  an  old  tale  thou'lt  say — for  life  is  dark, 

And  earth  hath   many  mourners  ;  fold  the  screen 
Close  o'er  the  burdened  heart ;  they  may  not  mark 
Who  at  the  revel  speed  in  pleasure-freighted  bark. 

She  died  in  youth  ;  ah,  many  thus  do  die  ! 
Her  smooth  brown  hair,  like  hue  where  sunlight  lingers. 

Low  o'er  her  temples  fell,  and  a  blue  eye 
Soft  as  for  angels  made,  death's  icy  fingers 
Sealed  the  star-hope  of  home,  the  all-caressed, 
The  soul-illumined  face,  a  lip  that  ever  blessed. 

Death  came  with  stealthy  pace,  with  rose-leaf  wreathed; 
See'st  thou  yon  river's  sheen,  in  laurel  sheathed  ? 
(Brother,  thou  know'st  it  well — that  mountain  strand 
Clasping  the  streams  wild  edge,  with  lofty  band  ;) 
One  lustrous  autumn  since,  there  did  we  guide 
Yon  mould'ring  skiff,  wont  o'er  its  blue  to  glide, 
And  on  the  forest's  many-colored  brow 
Forth  then  she  gazed  where    I    am  gazing  now. 
Leaves  rainbow-hued  strewn  o'er  (he  pathway  lie, 
Oh  what  a  gorgeous  shroud  the  earth  puts  on  to  die ! 


BURIAL    OF    THE    CONSUMPTIVE.  159 

My  wonted  walks  bring  back  her  gentle  glee  ; 

My  daily  paths  must  spirit-tokens  be ; 

Oh,  sister  of  ray  soul,  could  I  have  died  for  thee ! 

She  died — afar  they  bore  her  to  her  home ; 
Through  the  long  day  the  black-veiled  hearse  moved  on 

Solemn  and  slow,  nor  do  they  greeting  come 
With  crowded  loner  array,  as  oft  is  done 
When  pomp  and  state  are  sepulchred  ;  that  band 
Wend  silent  up  the  vale  to  their  own  hearthside's  land. 

A  low  white  cottage,  and  a  silver  lake 
Blue  glistening  thro'  green  leaves  and  care-reared  flowers, 

And  misty  hills  just  on  the  vision  break. 
While  near  a  mount,  with  a  rich  forest  towers; 
And  peasant,  neighbor,  friend,  gathered  at  day's  last  light, 
Faces  that  feign  not  grief,  bent  o'er  the  hearse  that  night. 

Thus  was  borne  back,  begirt  with  tear  and  pall, 
One  who  went  forth  some  waning  moons  ago 

With  hope  :  Death  wore  his  loveliest  look,  but  all 
Too  deep  the  holy  calm  for  aught  below ; 
A  solemn  beauty,  and  too  hushed  for  sleep. 
That  chills  the  gazer's  veins,  but  makes  hira  weep. 
Thenceforth  that  home  grief's  shadow  resteth  o'er. 
To  wake  to  that  glad  step — ah,  never  more ! 
Stilled  now  that  heart-toned  voice,  that  through  the  strife, 
The  dubious  struggle  of  disease  with  life. 
With  whispered  cadence  in  the  last  damp  chill 
Lent  to  o'erwatching  love  a  radiance  still, 
'And  'mid  the  faintness  of  hfe's  ebbing  sand. 
Her  low-breathed  murmur  of  the  happier  land  : 
A  funeral  torch,  that  crimson,  fearful  glow. 


160  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Death's  omen,  burning  on  a  foce  of  snow  ; 

Lighting  the  downward  steps  that  to  his  dwelling  go  ! 

Hence  she  went  fortli  when  summer  blossoms  die, 

With  lightly  said  farewell,  yet  lingering  eye  ; 

They  bore  her  back  when  bird-songs  filled  the  day. 

And  o'er  her  piled  the  sod  with  the   young  buds  of  May. 

I  stood  beside  the  grave,  the  rain-drops  fell 
On  the  fresh  opened  turf  heav}'  and  fast, 

And  on  the  bier  a  few  crushed  flowerets  tell 
Of  her  within ;  the  first  light  earth  o'ercast 
They  pause,  solemn  the  priest  said  o'er  the  "  dust  to  dust," 
And  thus  they  gave  to  earth  the  beauteous  one  in  trust. 

And  then  those  mourners  parted  ;  white-haired  sire, 
Brother  and  sister,  mother,  sorrow-stricken, 

One  to  her  mountain-home  ;  and  all  aspire 
More  humbly  now  to  tread  the  path  to  heaven  ; 
Ah,  blest — if  there  they  meet,  all  wayward  sin  forgiven. 


A    TALE     OF     THE     WOODS 


BY    W.     G. 


"  Each  lonely  spot  was  hallowed  then — tlie  oak, 
That  o'er  the  village  altar  hung,  would  tell 
Strange  hidden  things  ;  the  old  remembered  well. 
How  from  its  gloom  a  spirit  oilea  spoke." — Percival. 

To  the  mind  disposed  to  be  contemplative,  there  is 
something  extremely  fascinating  in  the  silence  of  nature — 
the  deep,  sweet,  and  unbroken  repose  of  creation.  There 
are  some  individuals  who  cannot  enjoy  existence  unless  it 
is  passed  amidst  the  crowded  streets  and  never-ceasing 
din  and  bustle  of  the  city.  Frightened  at  themselves, 
they  shun  thought,  and  spend  their  days  in  a  state  of 
feverish  and  continued  excitement,  without  ever  enjoying 
the  pleasure  which  a  spring  in  the  country  affords — a 
pleasure  which  seems  to  proceed  directly  from  the  hand 
of  Him  who  bestowed  existence.  With  great  truth  it  has 
been  remarked,  that  man  is  the  creature  of  circumstances  ; 
and  while  we  cling  with  fond  delight  to  the  spot  that  gave 
us  birth,  and  remember  with  undefined  rapture  the  scenes 
of  our  youthful  days,  and  believe  the  country  in  which  we 
may  happen  to  reside  to  be  the  only  one  that  feels  not  the 
curse  of  Heaven — by  the  kind  decree  of  Providence,  the 
inhabitant  of  every  other  land,  and  every  clime,  feels  the 
same  hallowed  attachment  to  the  spot  which  chance  has 
made  his  home. 

Thirty  years  ago,  my  parents,  with  some  other  families 


162  THE     MOSS-ROSE, 

from  one  of  the  Kew  England  States — that  prohfic  Live, 
which  has  sent  forth  so  many  swarms  to  people  the 
West — passed  the  white  settlements  on  the  Mohawk,  and 
plunged  into  the  vast  forests  which,  with  a  few  trifling 
exceptions,  covered  the  western  district  of  New  York.  I 
was  young,  and  unacquainted  with  the  cares  and  toils 
which  are  attendant  on  the  pioneers  of  civilization — every- 
thing was  new  and  charming — and  the  continued  succes- 
sion of  novelties,  to  a  young  and  ardent  mind,  contributed 
to  lessen  the  hardships  we  encountered  on  our  journey 
and  arrival.  We  fixed  our  home  in  the  midst  of  the  coun- 
try of  the  Six  Nations,  in  the  county  of  Onondaga ;  other 
emigrants  followed  our  steps ;  the  blue  smoke  began  to 
ascend  from  the  sea  of  woods,  the  primeval  forests  began 
to  disappear,  and  the  native  proprietors  of  the  region  saw 
with  astonishment  that  their  territory  had  passed  into 
other  hands,  and  that  they  would  soon  be  driven  to  follow 
their  game  in  a  distant  region.  To  me,  the  first  few  years 
I  spent  in  those  wilds  were  the  fairest  and  brightest  I 
have  ever  known  ;  the  cultivated  field,  the  populous  city, 
for  me  can  never  have  the  charm  which  my  young  bosom 
then  felt ;  and  were  I  permitted  to  select  any  portion  of 
my  life,  as  one  I  would  wish  to  live  over  again,  it  would 
be  those  days  when,  heedless  of  the  future,  I  reclined 
myself  beneath  some  giant  of  the  forest,  read  Don  Quixote 
or  Robinson  Crusoe,  or  a  tale  of  still  sweeter  and  dearer 
import  in  the  eyes  of  one  of  nature's  purest,  loveliest 
creations,  the  young  and  innocent  Caroline  Williams.  But 
Caroline  has  long  since  gone  to  heaven.  Sweet  flower ! 
she  was  too  bright,  and  pure,  and  fair  for  earth,  and,  in 
kindness,  was  early  transplanted  to  a  more  congenial  clirae 
and  holier  sky. 

Near  the  place  where  my  parent^ — and  hers  too,  for  we 


A     TALE     OF     THEWOODS.  163 

were  in  the  same  neighborhood — had  located  themselves, 
was  a  spot  which  a  mind  less  disposed  than  my  own  to 
think  favorably  of  nature,  whether  in  her  wildest  or  her 
most  placid  and  beautiful  dress,  must  have  admired ;  this 
spot  was  a  small  lake,  of  a  mile  or  two  in  circumference, 
situated  in  a  deep  glen — a  place  the  most  secluded  and 
quiet  imaginable,   and    perhaps  a  mile  from  my  father's 
house.     Lying  in  a  deep  valley,  the  rocks  in  some  places 
arose  dark  and  perpendicularly  from  the  water's  edge  to  a 
great  height;  while,  in  others,  the  transparent  sheet  slum- 
bered  on   white   sand,    or  smooth  and  rounded  pebbles. 
The  tall  hemlocks,  with  their  dark  green  tops  seeming  to 
lean  against  the  blue  skies;  covered  the  high  banks  and 
the  sloping  shores  ;  and  their  massy  trunks,  reflected  from 
the  surface  of  the  lake,  appeared  like  sentinels,  which  na- 
ture had  placed  on  the  rocky  margin,  to  guard  the  place 
from  unhallowed   intrusion.     But  the  most  singular  and 
striking  feature  of  the  place  was  the  peculiar  hue  of  the 
waters,   which  invariably,   to  the  spectator,  was  a  most 
beautiful  green,  lighter  or  darker  as  the  sunshine  or  the 
the  cloud  rested  upon  it ;  and  from  which  circumstance 
the  natives,  who  had  so  long  roamed  unmolested  on  its 
margin  in  pursuit  of  the  red  deer  which  loved  to  lave  in 
its  waters,  had  conferred  upon  it  the  name  of  Green  Lake. 
Though  the  hue  was  unquestionably  owing  to  the  never- 
fading  verdure  with  which  it  was  suiTounded,  still  it  was 
none  the  less  striking ;   and  when  you  emerged  from  the 
deep  gloom  of  the  forest,  and  stood  on  one  of  the  high 
cliffs  which  overhung  the  lake — when  you  saw  the  wood- 
ed shores  inverted  in  the  unruffled  mirror,  and  reflected 
with  such  perfect  distinctness,  that  even  the  wild  roses 
which  blossomed  on  the  margin  seemed  floating  on  the 
pellucid  wave,  and  the  red  flowers  of  the  maple  and  the 


164  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

white  clusters  of  the  boxwood  appeared  witliin  reach — 
when  the  h\ke  itself  had  all  the  soft  richness  and  vivid 
greenness  which  belong  to  the  meadow — when  the  last  low 
rays  of  a  September  sun  have  converted  it  into  velvet — 
when  the  white  clouds  which  floated  in  the  blue  sky  had 
the  appearance  of  snow-wreaths  drifting  slowly  over  its 
surface — it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  and  admire  its 
beauty.  And  then  it  was  so  still  and  serene  :  frequently, 
indeed,  the  soft  winds,  as  they  came  sighing  through  the 
gently-waving  branches,  would  wake  the  little  ripples  on 
the  surface,  and  set  them  sparkling  and  glittering  in  all 
the  splendor  of  green  and  gold  ;  yet  the  guardians  of  its 
margin  prevented  its  being  w^ked  to  billowy  agitation. 

Here,  far  away  from  the  world,  I  spent  many  of  my 
youthful  days  ;  and  never,  no,  never  shall  I  forget  those 
hours  when,  in  company  with  my  lovely  and  loved  Caro- 
line, we  walked  on  the  shores  of  the  lake,  or,  seated  on 
some  moss-covered  rock,  permitted  the  hours  to  pass  un- 
heeded ;  while  the  innocent  girl,  with  blushing  cheek  and 
eyes,  which  the  dews  of  young  affection  moistened,  listen- 
ed to  the  simple  and  artless  tale  of  love.  Then,  I  could 
scarcely  fancy  a  heaven  of  purer  happiness  than  I  at  such 
hours  enjoyed ;  and  earth — away  with  the  thought  !  it 
was  profanation — thrones  and  sceptres  would  not  have 
weighed  a  feather  against  that  paradise  and  the  lovely 
Caroline.  Passionately  fond  of  music  as  I  was,  if  I  wish- 
ed it,  I  had  only  to  listen  to  the  sweet,  melting  tones  of  a 
voice  which,  with  all  the  tenderness  that  love  alone  can  in- 
spire, sang  some  simple  favorite  melody  ;  and  as  the  sounds 
gradually  died  away,  it  needed  no  fanciful  imagination  to 
people  each  jutting  rock  and  wooded  cliff  witli  spiritual 
beings,  who  cauglit  up  the  melody  and  sent  it  back  with 
increasing  softness  and  lightly  echoing  sweetness.     And 


A     TALE     OF    THE     WOODS.  165 

the  tall  forests,  when  at  such  hours  the  winds  swept  over 
them,  did  not  they  make  music  ?  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say, 
that  the  man  who  can  hear  the  first  approach  of  the 
breeze  as  it  moves  onward,  waving  the  leafy  branches — 
now  rising,  now  sinking,  now  sighing  through  the  pointed 
tops  of  the  pine  or  hemlock — and  not  feel  that  the  spirit 
of  harmony  is  abroad,  has  not  a  particle  of  music  in  his 
soul.  Then,  too,  there  was  the  gentle  cooing  of  the  wild 
pigeon — the  saddened,  plaintive  notes  of  the  wood-dove — 
the  merry,  joyous  tones  of  the  beautiful  black-bird  and 
the  thrush — and  when  twilight  came  on,  the  wood-robin 
sent  its  sweet  melodies  from  the  depth  of  the  thicket — and 
echo  wafted  the  soothing  and  delicious  sounds,  in  many  a 
delightful  undulation,  over  the  smooth  waters.  Frequent- 
ly, while  enjoying  this  happy  retreat,  the  red  deer  would 
come  to  lave  herself  in  the  lake,  and,  followed  by  her 
spotted  fawn,  would  sport  for  hours  in  wild  playfulness  on 
the  pebbled  margin  ;  and  the  buck,  with  his  branching  ant- 
lers and  proud  bearing,  Avould  bound  by  us,  scarcely 
deigning  to  notice  the  intruders  on  his  domain. 

Caroline  and  myself  were  one  day  sitting  on  our  favorite 
moss-covered  rock,  which  was  shaded  from  the  intense 
heat  of  a  summer  sun  by  the  thick  foliage  of  some  majes- 
tic trees,  and  viewing  the  lake,  which,  placid  as  the  bo- 
som of  innocence,  was  in  all  its  beauty  spread  before  us. 
The  head  of  the  lovely  girl  was  reclining  on  my  shoulder — 
her  speaking  eyes  frequently  met  mine,  and  in  them  I  read 
the  most  delightful  proof  of  her  unaltered  affection  and 
love.  From  this  trance  of  happiness  we  were  roused  by 
footsteps,  and  turning,  saw  Pianottimo,  a  chief  of  the  Sen- 
ecas,  standing  near  us.  He  had  for  some  time  been  hunt- 
ing in  that  neighborhood,  and  was  well  known  to  us,  con- 
sequently no  alarm  was  caused  by  his  sudden  appearance  ; 


166  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

and  placing  his  rifle  against  a  hemlock  at  some  little  dis- 
tance, he  approached  us  with  a  smile,  offered  me  his 
hand,  and,  after  the  usual  salutations,  stretched  himself 
on  the  bank  near  us,  and,  as  he  conversed,  looked  alternate- 
ly at  us  and  at  the  lake  below.  Pianottimo  was  a  tall, 
dignified-looking  person,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  firmly 
attached  to  the  habits  and  dress  of  the  Indians,  while  at 
the  same  time  he  was  the  undeviating  friend  of  the  whites, 
and  was  considered  as  a  person  of  more  than  ordinary 
acuteness  and  sagacity.  He  could  converse  in  English, 
and  although  it  was  in  a  broken  manner,  yet  he  chose  it, 
when  he  wished  to  make  himself  understood  by  the  whites, 
in  preference  to  the  signs  to  which  many  of  the  natives 
confined  themselves.  A  lio-ht  fleecv  cloud  was,  when  he 
came  up  to  us,  drifting  over  the  heavens — it  grew  thicker, 
and  a  smart  shower  of  rain  fell,  pattering  on  the  dry  leaves, 
and  breaking,  with  its  large  drops,  the  surface  of  the 
lake  into  ten  thousand  eddying  circles.  Beneath  the  thick 
branches  of  a  huge  hemlock  \ve  were  safe  from  the  effects 
of  the  shower ;  and  when  it  ceased,  and  with  sullen  roar 
was  passing  off  to  the  east,  Caroline  and  myself  again 
walked  to  the  cliff,  where  Pianottimo  was  still  reclining. 

The  lake,  when  we  stood  on  the  bank  by  the  side  of  the 
chief,  exhibited  an  appearance  as  new  as  it  was  beautiful. 
Small  wreaths  of  wliite  mist  were  slowly  rising  from  its 
surface,  light  as  the  fleeting  gossamer,  and  scarcely  leav- 
ing the  water  before  they  vanished  into  thin  air. 

"  We  sluill  have  more  showers, "  said  the  chief,  in  his 
broken  English  ;  "  when  the  fog  rises  not  to  the  tree- tops, 
the  clouds  are  not  all  past.  " 

From  our  knowledge  of  the  skill  which  observation  con- 
fers upon  the  Indian  in  determining  the  coming  events  of 
that  kind,  I  had  no  reason  to  doubt  liis  correctness  now, 


A     TALE     OF     THE     WOODS.  167 

and  proposed  to  Caroline  that  we  should  return  to  our 
homes.     This  design  was  interrupted  by  Pianottimo. 

"  See  you  that  on  the  high  rock  yonder  ?"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  precipitous  cliff  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake. 

"I  see  nothing,  "  I  answered,  "but  the  mist  which  is 
leaving  the  lake  and  creeping  up  the  side  of  the  rock.  " 

"  That  is  not  mist,"  he  answered,  emphatically  ;  "  see 
you  not  that  now  it  is  motionless — that,  when  it  has 
reached  the  top  of  the  rock,  it  stirs  not.  What  we  see,  is 
there  by  permission  of  the  Great  Spirit ;  it  bodes  no  good 
to  us  ;  better  would  it  have  been,  had  we  not  seen  it !" 

"  It  is  nothing  but  the  effect  of  that  little  spring  which 
trickles  down  the  rocks,  and  up  the  current  of  which  the 
fog  is  climbing,"  I  replied,  laughing ;  though  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  chief  showed  that  he  fancied  he  saw  in  the 
occurrence  matter  far  too  serious  for  mirth. 

"  Many  years  ago,  "  said  Pianottimo,  "  Oroma,  a  young 
chief  of  the  Delawares,  was  hunting  in  the  grounds  of  the 
Oneidas — for  the  tomahawk  had  been  buried  between  the 
Six  Nations  and  the  Delawares — when  he  saw  and  loved 
the  young  Euroka,  the  daughter  of  Cannadea,  a  powerful 
chief  of  the  Oneidas.  Euroka  was  fair  as  the  morning — 
tall  and  graceful  as  the  whitewood — her  dark  hair  hung 
around  her  shoulders  like  the  moss  of  the  cypress — her 
eyes  were  sparkling  as  the  stars  in  the  heaven  of  Manitou — 
and  her  breath  was  sweet  as  the  wind  which,  in  the  months 
of  spring,  blows  over  the  thick  blossoming  tufts  of  the 
maple,  and  is  scented  with  the  fragrance  of  the  wild  rose. 
He  told  the  Oneida  maiden  his  tale  of  love  ;  and,  pleased 
as  the  timid  dove,  Avhen  she  hears  in  the  thick  wood  the 
first  notes  of  her  faithful  partner,  Euroka  listened.  They 
were  never  tired  of  each  other's  company ;  together  they 
visited  this  place,  and  stood  on  that  rock,  upon  which 


168 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


what  you  call  the  mists  of  the  lake  are  now  settled.  Love 
shuns  the  world,  and  in  this  solitude  Oroma  was  all  the 
young  daughter  of  the  chieftain  wished.  "  As  Pianottimo 
said  these  words,  he  turned  his  dark  and  expressive  eyes 
upon  us ;  and  as  I  pressed  Caroline's  hand,  the  blush  that 
covered  her  beautiful  features  showed  that  the  chief  had 
spoken  the  truth. 

The  sachem  continued  his  narrative  :  "  They  were  con- 
versing as  you  were,  when  this  day  I  first  saw  you.  Oroma 
was  arranging  some  strings  of  wampum  in  the  flowing  hair 
of  his  favorite  girl ;  and,  pleased,  she  was  examining  a 
beautiful  pair  of  moccasins  which  he  had  procured  for  her. 
Her  bright  eyes  were  telling  of  the  love  that  filled  her  in- 
nocent bosom,  when  there  was  a  sudden  report  of  a  rifle ; 
and  Oroma,  staggering  a  few  feet  towards  his  rifle,  which 
was  lying  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance  from  him, 
made  an  ineff'ectual  effort  to  grasp  it,  but  it  was  too  late ; 
and  though  Euroka  flew  to  his  aid,  he  reeled,  and  fell  from 
the  precipice.  To  the  consternation  of  the  terror-struck 
and  confounded  maiden,  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tiger  the 
malicious  and  vindictive  Connequoit,  the  powerful  Iro- 
quois who  had  in  vain  sought  the  love  of  the  Oneida 
maiden,  rushed  from  the  wood,  and,  seizing  her  in  his 
arms,  was  bearing  her  rapidly  towards  the  thicket.  De- 
spair, when  she  saw  the  shadowy  forms  of  a  number  of  his 
followers  waiting  to  execute  his  orders,  and  carry  her  be- 
yond the  hope  of  rescue,  restored  lier  to  the  exercise  of 
her  powers,  and  she  demanded  to  be  released. 

"  '  Never,'  said  the  Iroquois  ;  '  you  are  mine  now,  and 
you  shall  remain  so ;  nor  can  the  great  Manitou  himself 
prevent  it.' 

"  His  boast  was  vain — her  resolution  was  taken,  and 
with  a  sudden  effort  she  sprang  from  the  arms  of  Con- 


A     TALE     OF     THE     WOODS.  169 

uequoit,  and  with  tlie  swiftness  of  an  arrow  darted  to  the 
chff.  A  precipice  near  the  water's  edge  had  broken  the  fall 
of  Ororaa,  and  life  still  remained.  Light  as  the  red  deer, 
Euroka  leaped  the  dangerous  descent,  at  the  moment  the 
enraged  Iroquois  came  up,  and  clasping  the  dying  Del- 
aware in  her  ai-ms,  plunged  from  the  rock  into  the  dark 
green  wave.  Deep  they  sunk,  and  after  the  waves  had 
closed  over  them,  a  few  bubbles  that  rose  to  the  surface 
alone  pointed  out  the  .'^pot  where  the  faithful  lovers  had 
sunk — to  lise  no  more. 

"  Stung  with  madness"  at  the  escape  of  his  victim  in 
such  an  unexpected  manner,  the  Iroquois  chief  ordered 
his  followers  to  endeavor  to  save  her;  but  while  he 
remained  motionless  on  the  verge,  they  saw  it  was  impos- 
sible to  reach  the  water  without  making  the  same  des- 
perate plunge  that  she  had  done,  and  the  attempt  was 
relinquished  as  hopeless.  The  great  Manitou  was  pleased 
with  the  affection  and  constancy  of  the  lovers,  and  permits 
their  spiiits  to  roam  where  they  please  in  this  land  they 
loved  so  well;  but  long  experience  has  proved,  that  those 
who  behold  their  shadowy  forms  as  they  revisit  the  scenes 
of  their  youth  and  love,  will  never  again  see  the  leaves  fall 
from  the  trees,  or  cover  the  thick  branches  with  their  wav- 
ing green. " 

So  much  had  our  attention  been  engrossed  by  the  little 
history  of  the  Oneida  maiden,  and  which  was  so  intimately 
associated  with  the  scenery  around  us,  that  we  had  for- 
gotten our  intention  of  returning  ;  and  I  was  proceeding 
to  gain  some  further  information  from  the  chief  with 
regard  to  what  he  considered  the  supernatural  appearance 
before  us,  when  our  attention  was  suddenly  recalled  by 
a  quick  and  loud  peal  of  thunder,  and  turning,  I  per- 
ceived that  a  dark  and  gloomy  mass  was  already  filling  the 


170 


THE    MOSS-ROSE 


western  horizon,  and  had  begun  to  cast  its  deep  shadows 
over  the  hxke  ;  and  that,  from  the  threatening  appearances, 
a  severe  storm  might  be  expected. 

"  Shall  we  endeavor  to  reach  our  houses  before  the 
storm  overtakes  us?"  I  inquired,  as  I  took  Caroline's  arm. 

"  Certainly  ;  though  I  fear  we  have  lingered  too  long," 
replied  Caroline,  as  she  cast  a  hurried  glance  at  the 
heavens. 

"If  an  Indian  might  be  permitted  to  advise,"  said 
Pianottirao,  "I  would  say,  take  shelter  under  this  rocky  bank 
until  the  storm  is  over.  The  forest  is  not  a  place  of  safety 
when  the  thunders  of  the  Great  Spirit  are  abroad  :  you  will 
not  reach  your  home ;    and  I  fear  that  evil  is  before  you." 

"  Shall  we  take  the  advice  of  our  friend,  and  remain 
with  him  ?"  I  asked  of  the  trembling  Caroline. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  and  let  us  not  lose  a  moment 
in  returning ;"  and  bidding  the  chief  adieu,  we  plunged 
into  the  forest. 

We  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  I  saw  that  the  tem- 
pest was  rapidly  approaching,  and  the  quick  bursts  of  the 
thunder  and  the  vivid  flashing  of  the  lightning  plainly  indi- 
cated its  violence.  Caroline  was  unusually  agitated — pale 
and  almost  breathless,  she  urged  me  forward,  while  she 
hung  upon  my  arm,  unable  to  support  herself.  At  last 
the  deepening  and  increasing  roar,  only  broken  by  the 
thunder — the  cloud  of  leaves  torn  from  their  branches, 
and  driven  onward  by  the  coming  blast — the  tumultuous 
screaming  and  hurried  flight  of  the  birds  of  prey,  as  they 
hasted  to  a  place  of  shelter — all  told  that  the  fury  of  the 
tempest  would  soon  be  upon  us.  Large  drops  of  rain,  min- 
gled with  scattering  hailstones,  came  driving  through  the 
tree-tops,  wliich  were  already  bending  before  tlie  furious 
winds.     Tile  gloom  was  jirofoiiiul,  ami  remlrred  more  ter- 


A     TALE     OF    THE     WOODS.  171 

rific  by  the  vividness  of  the  lightning,  which  with  sulphu- 
reous flashes  lighted  up  the  dark  recesses  of  the  forest. 
To  advance  was  rendered  impracticable  by  the  violence  of 
the  wind  ;  and  the  crash  of  the  falling  trees,  if  we  remain- 
ed, threatened*us  with  instant  destruction.  The  question 
was,  however,  decided  by  Caroline,  who  declared  her  in- 
ability to  proceed  ;  and  selecting  a  large  linden,  whicli 
from  its  size  promised  to  resist  the  impetuosity  of  the  tor- 
nado as  well  as  afford  a  comparative  shelter,  I  placed  her 
behind  it  in  such  a  manner  that  she  was  in  some  degree 
sheltered  from  the  rain,  which  was  pouring  through  the 
branches  in  drifting  torrents.  Wrapping  her  in  an  outer 
garment  was  the  last  that  I  remembered  for  some  hours — 
to  me  there  was  a  blank  in  existence — and  when  I  recov- 
ered my  reason,  the  first  object  I  saw  was  Pianottimo 
standing  over  me,  with  a  countenance  in  which  o-rief  and 
joy  alternately  prevailed,  or  were  so  strangely  blended  in 
his  dark  features  that  I  shall  never  forget  the  impression 
they  made.  The  storm  had  passed — the  sun,  low  in  the 
west,  was  setting  fair  and  bright — that  delicious  and  pecu- 
liar fragrance,  which  fills  the  air  when  a  forest  has  fallen 
before  the  axe  of  the  woodman  or  the  fury  of  a  tornado, 
existed  in  all  its  richness  ;  but  when  I  attempted  to  move, 
I  found  myself  utterly  unable  ;  the  least  effort  produced 
the  most  excruciating  agony,  and  the  whole  surface  of  my 
body,  on  the  slightest  motion,  felt  as  though  it  had  been 
burned  to  a   cinder. 

The  chief  raised  me  up.  "  Tell  me,"  said  I,  "  what  has 
become  of  Caroline  ?" 

He  answered  nothing,  but  pointed  with  his  finger  down- 
ward. I  looked,  and,  good  heavens,  what  a  spectacle  ! — 
Caroline  was  lying  on  the  ground — her  face  pale  and 
stamped  with  the  hand  of  death — her  clothes  partly  con- 


172  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

sumed,  and  her  arm,  which  was  lying  on  her  bosom,  livid 
and  burned.  I  instantly  comprehended  the  whole — I  saw 
the  rifted  and  shattered  tree,  and  felt  that  the  fire  of 
heaven  had  consumed  the  dross  of  her  mortality,  and 
freed  in  a  moment,  and  without  pain,  tl?e  immortal  and 
ethereal  spirit.  I  sunk  to  the  earth  by  her  side,  kissed  her 
cold  lips,  which  but  a  few  hours  before  had  glowed  with  the 
warmth  of  pure  and  kindred  affection,  and  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  moment,  cursed  the  fate  that  had  left  me  behind. 

Pianottimo  saw  my  grief,  and,  in  the  peculiar  manner  of 
a  native  chief,  attempted  to  fortify  my  mind. 

"  Men  meet  and  overcome  the  evils  of  life,"  said  he,  as 
he  took  my  hand  ;  "  but  women  and  boys  murmur  and 
sink  under  them." 

I  felt  his  reproof,  and  rose.  The  chief  assisted  me  in 
walking  about  a  little  distance,  during  which  he  informed 
me,  that,  as  soon  as  the  storm  ceased,  he  set  out  after  us, 
convinced,  from  the  rapidity  with  which  it  rose,  that  we 
must  have  been  overtaken  by  it,  and  found  that  his  pre- 
sentiment of  evil  had  been  too  fatallv  verified. 

"  Will  you  be  my  friend  now,  and  assist  me  in  removing 
Caroline  to  our  home  ?"  I  incjuired  of  the  chief,  when  I 
found  that  a  little  exercise  had  removed  the  painful  sensa- 
tions I  first  experienced,  and  given  me  strengtli  to  walk. 

"Pianottimo  has  always  been  tlie  friend  of  the  white 
man,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  were  he  not,  the  Groat  Spirit  has 
taught  him  to  Iielp  even  an  enemy  when  in  distress — much 
more,  one  who  has  always  been  his  friend." 

So  saying,  he  raised  the  lifeless  Caroline  in  his  arms  ; 
and  while  1  followed  him  with  much  dilliculty  and  many 
pauses  tlirough  the  fallen  timber,  we  at  last  reached  my 
father's  house,  where  we  liad  for  a  long  time  bt'cn  ex- 
pected, with  an  anxiety  which  parents  only  can  feel. 


A     TALE     OF     THE     WOODS.  173 

The  young,  the  loved,  the  innocent  and  the  beautiful 
Caroline  was  committed  to  the  earth ;  but  I  found  it  im- 
possible to  remain  where  my  happiness  had  suffered  such 
an  irreparable  and  fatal  blow ;  and  I,  with  the  consent  of 
ray  parents,  left  that  place  and  the  country,  for  Europe. 
Twenty  years  did  not  obliterate  the  recollections  of  Caro- 
line from  my  heart ;  and  when  I  returned  to  the  United 
States,  and  had  visited  my  parents,  who  had  returned  to 
their  native  State,  with  much  the  feelings  which  fill  the 
mind  of  the  pilgrim  to  the  sacred  shrine  of  Mecca  I 
sought  out  the  place  where  one  so  dear  to  me  slept  her 
peaceful  sleep. 

The  willow  I  had  planted,  marked  the  hallowed  spot 
where  Caroline  reposed,  and  I  again  watered  it  with  ray 
tears  ;  but  how  changed  were  all  things  around  !  I  felt 
like  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  ;  the  desolating  hand  of 
man  had  been  over  the  face  of  nature,  and  the  forest  had 
disappeared  ;  and  it  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  regret 
that  I  saw  the  majestic  trees,  which  had  shaded  my  favor- 
ite retreat  on  the  margin  of  the  beautiful  lake,  floating,  a 
fit  emblem  of  the  prostration  of  my  hopes,  on  the  wave 
they  had  once  so  proudly  shadowed  and  so  securely 
guarded,  and  which  had  so  often  reflected  to  the  blue  sky 
the  deep-green  foliage  which,  like  my  happiness,  had 
passed  away  forever. 


NIGHT 


BY  MISS  CAROLINE  E.  ROBERTS. 


'Tis  holy  night — the  stars  are  out 
Upon  their  watches  far  on  high  ; 

The  moon's  shght  shell  upon  the  edge 
Of  the  horizon's  verge  doth  lie, 

Lookincr  a  fair  "  sfood  nioht"  to  me, 

Who  watch  her  course  thus  silently. 

'Tis  holy  night — the  moon  hath  gone 
With  timid  steps  to  seek  her  lord  ; 

The  sun  her  master  is,  and  she 
Ever  with  loving  sweet  accord. 

Through  night  and  day  doth  follow  him, 

Lest  her  pale  lamp  should  grow  more  dim. 

'Tis  holy  night — God  grant  that  I 

A  lesson  from  its  page  may  borrow  ; 
Just  like  the  moon,  through  night  and  day, 

Through  present  joy  and  coming  sorrow. 
May  I,  with  meek  and  lowly  heart, 

Follow  my  Lord  with  trusting  love. 
Keeping  an  eye  undimmed  and  clear 

Upon  His  glory  far  above  ; 
Knowing,  like  her,  more  and  more  dim 
My  light,  and  life,  if  far  from  llim. 


MY    CARD-BASKET. 


BY     THE     EDITRESS. 


Kind  reader,  have  you  ever  enjoyed  the  luxury  of 
spending  an  hour  alone  in  examining  the  contents  of  a  neg- 
lected card-basket  ?  If  not,  you  have  lost  an  hour  of 
pleasure.  The  heart  receives  a  fresh  impulse ;  kind  and 
gentle  feelings  creep  over  the  spirit,  and  bear  it  away  from 
present  cares,  as  "lang  syne"  comes  before  us  with  vivid 
reality.  Who  does  not  like  to  indulge  occasionally  in 
reminiscences  of  the  past,  even  back  to  the  hours  of  child- 
hood ?  Stransce  that  vre  are  so  constituted  as  to  allow 
events  of  a  late  date  to  pass  from  the  mind  ;  while  early  oc- 
currences, even  of  threescore  years'  standing,  are  before  the 
mental  eye  in  all  their  freshness.  The  smiles,  caresses, 
and  corrections  of  loving  parents ;  the  old  homestead, 
where  our  tiny  feet  wandered  for  the  early  wild  flowers ; 
the  solemn  church,  where  a  loved  father  delivered  his  em- 
bassy from  the  Most  High  to  an  attentive  congregation ; 
the  village  church-yard,  where  the  earthly  remains  of  an 
angel  sister  were  laid  to  rest ;  the  pleasant  school-house, 
where  the  young  idea  was  first  developed  ;  the  huge  flat 
rock  under  the  wide-spreading  chestnut  tree — a  favorite 
resort  for  reading  and  study ;  all  present  themselves  to 
view,  and  for  a  moment  cause  us  to  forget  that  years  of 
trial  and  sorrow  have  intervened  between  that  time  and 
the  present. 


^"^^  THE     MOSS-ROSE 


But  to  return  to  my  subject. 

Know  then,  indulgent  reader,  that  I  (allow  me  to  use 
the  first  person  singular)  have  a  card -basket ;  not  one  of 
those  small,  elegant,  and  expensive  articles  that  adorn  the 
centre-tables  of  the  aristocratic  ;  but  one  of  ample  dimen- 
sions— perhaps  some  twelve  inches  in  diameter — once  oc- 
tagonal, now  circular,  in  consequence  of  the  pressure  of 
its  contents  ;  still,  however,  displaying  the  variety  of  sea- 
shells  and  sea-weed  which  were  designed  to  ornament  the 
pieces  of  Bristol-board,  edged  with  gold  paper  and  laced 
with  blue  ribbon,  of  which  it  is  .composed. 

This  basket,  capacious  as  it  is,  has  long  been  overladen ; 
and  this  morning  (as  every  neat  housewife  should)  I 
sought  to  improve  its  appearance  by  removing  the  dust, 
and  arranging  the  numerous  cards,  invitations,  &c.,  think- 
ing to  burn  up  the  soiled,  and  retain  those  which  were 
still  beautiful  or  fair. 

Business  was  commenced  by  emptying  the  papers  in  a 
mass  upon  the  piano.  Curiosity  induced  me  to  examine 
each  one.  Here  was  a  dilemma — even  the  soiled  were  pre- 
cious ;  many,  aye,  most  of  the  cards  were  names  of  be- 
loved pupils,  (for  I  have  been  some  years  a  teacher  ;) 
those  endeared  to  me  by  many  ties ;  those  wlio  I  fondly 
believe  loved  me  truly  in  return.  Indeed,  I  always  con- 
sidered myself  peculiarly  fortunate  in  having  the  best 
scholars  in  the  world  ;  those  who  were  agreeable,  amiable, 
and  affectionate.  Seldom  did  anything  occur  to  mar  the 
kind  feeling  that  existed  between  teachers  and  pupils, 
while,  for  seven  years,  I  was  connected  with  a  certain  lite- 
rary institution  at  D ;  and  if  occasionally  a  refractory 

spirit  appeared  among  our  sisterhood,  harmony  was  soon 
restored  by  our  judicious  and  distinguished  principal.  Es- 
timable and  lamented  8— — !     A  tear  starts  at  the  rccol- 


MY     CARD-BASKET.  177 

lection  of  one  so  deservedly  loved,  so  universally  regret- 
ted !  But  we  trust  thy  pure  spirit  looks  down  from  a 
brighter  world  approvingly,  and  perhaps  hovers  near,  to 
hallow  the  spot  where  thy  successors  toil  on  in  thy  foot- 
steps. 

His  name  is  treasured  as  a  precious  relic,  inscribed  by 
his  own  hand  in  a  volume  of  poems,  a  valued  keepsake. 

Sorrowfully  we  turn  to  our  card-basket. 

First  comes  an  invitation  to  a  wedding,  in  a  neatly  em- 
bossed envelope,  with  a  silver  seal.  The  bride  was  a 
young  and  accomplished  friend,  a  pupil  and  assistant. 
That  must  be  retained. 

The  next  is  a  card,  "  P.  S.  P.,  United  States'  Consul, 
Bombay,  India."  The  best  of  cousins  ;  laid  to  rest  in  the 
coral  caves  of  the  deep,  green  sea,  near  that  port.  May 
we  meet  in  heaven ! 

"  G.  A,  P."  A  brother  of  the  above.  Methinks  I  see 
his  happy  face,  and  hear  his  ever-cheerful  voice,  though 
now  upon  the  weary  way  to  the  land  of  gold. 

A  visiting  card  of  a  distinguished  lady. 

Ditto,  of  an  honorable  gentleman  and  his  lady. 

Ditto,  from  a  resident  in  Alabama. 

Note  from  a  dear  friend — all  to  be  preserved  with  care. 

Numerous  cards  of  invitation  to  weddings,  soirees,  and 
parties.  These  to  be  laid  aside  for  pleasant  recollections, 
and  references. 

Here  are  some  scores  of  cards  from  my  scholars,  neatly 
enclosed  in  envelopes,  and  tied  with  blue  or  white  ribbon. 
The  covers  being  soiled,  I  will  remove  them,  that  the  cards 
may  be  bright  and  new.  Some  rude  hand  has  broken  off 
this  blue  ribbon,  leaving  a  tight  knot.  No  matter — I  can 
tear  the  envelope.  "  L.  A.  T."  -A  talented  girl;  now  a 
9  ) 


178 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


wife  and  mother  in  the  far  West — doubtless  diffusing  light 
and  happiness  around  her. 

"  H.  M.  C,"  with  an  inscription  of  love  upt)n  the  back 
of  the  card.     Sweet  child  !     She  is  an  antjel  now. 

"L.  M.  C."  Upon  the  reverse  is  written,  "July  20, 
'40.  When  other  years,  dear  teacher,  shall  have  removed 
from  my  brow  the  mists  that  now  gather  around  it,  as  oft 
as  my  mind  would  dwell  upon  some  cherished  theme,  be 
assured  it  will  picture  the  recollection  of  my  early  friend 
and  instructress." 

"  H.  R.  H."  Edged  with  black;  an  emblem  of  mourn- 
ing for  a  dear  mother. 

"  A.  H.  I'll  think  of  thee,  dear  teacher,  as  oft  as  mem- 
ory fond  shall  chance  to  call  to  mind  the  recollections  of 
some  happier  hours." 

"  C.  G."  A  loved  and  loving  one — called  to  a  world 
of  spirits. 

"  H.  M.  De  G."  Sweet  giil !  and  justly  beloved  for 
every  amiable  quality.     She  too  has  gone  before  us. 

"C.  T."     A  talented  writer. 5^ 

"  J.  M.  T.,"  "  Little  Julc,"  as  she  was  called,  to  distin- 
guish her  from  a  cousin  of  a  similar  name.  How  I  love 
to  think  of  her  blue  eyes,  and  rich  golden  tresses,  and 
pleasant  smiles ! 

"  B.  A.  E."  My  soul  sickens  when  I  call  to  mind  the 
untimely  death  of  this  excellent  young  lady.  There  is  no 
sickness  like  that  of  the  heart — hers  was  broken  ! 

But  lest  I  tire  your  patience,  gentle  reader,  I  will  hasten 
on,  and  place  numbers  in  the  basket,  without  giving 
names ;  contenting  myself  with  copying  a  few  sentences 
from  them.  Oh  !  how  these  all'ectiunate  inscriptions  act 
upon  the  heart,  and  bring  to  mind  the  pleasures,  as  Avell 
as  toils  of  the  school-room  ! 


MY     CARD-BASKET.  179 

"Amicum  recordere." 
"  Remember  me." 
"Absent — not  forgotten." 

— "  Trifles  in  themselves 
Are,  to  the  feeling  heart,  of  greater  worth 
Than  India's  richest  gems." 

"  Touched  by  the  magic  hand  of  those  we  love, 
A  trifle  will  of  consequence  appear ; 
A  flower,  a  blade  of  grass,  a  pin,  a  glove, 
A  scrap  of  paper,  still  become  most  dear." 

"For  my  dearest  teacher." 

"  A  spell  to  call  back  by-gone  times." 

"  In  distant  lands  if  I  may  be, 
Or  on  my  native  shore, 
But  one  request  I  make  of  thee. 
Remember  me — I  ask  no  more." 

"  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds 
Our  hearts  in  Chi'istian  love." 

"  Oh,  knowest  tlyf^u  why,  to  distance  riven, 
When  friendship  weeps  the  parting  hour. 
The  simplest  gift  that  moment  given, 
Long,  long  retains  a  magic  power  ?" 

"  Accept  this  as  a  token  of  friendship  and  love." 
"  Pensez  a  moi,  ma  chere  ami." 
"  Te  mihi  in  memoria  habeo." 
"  Forget  me  not." 

"  May  I  never  forget  the  kindness  of  my  dear  precep- 
tress." 

"  Hath  not  thy  voice  been  here  among  us  heard. 
And  that  deep  soul  of  gentleness  and  power  ? 
Have  we  not  felt  its  breath  in  every  word, 

Wont  from  thy  lips  as  Hermon's  dews  to  shower  ? 
Yes,  in  our  hearts  thy  fervent  thoughts  have  burned." 


180  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Ever  dear  to  my  heart  shall  thy  memory  be, 
And  bright  be  thy  days,  from  adversity  free." 

"  Remember  me  when  thou  dost  sigh, 
And  softly  bend  the  knee, 
To  offer  up  thy  prayer  on  high, 
While  kindred  spirits  hover  nigh, 
Oh,  then  remember  me !" 

These  are  but  few  of  the  many  contained  in  my  notable 
card- basket.  I  find  I  have  none  to  spare — even  thougjli 
some  are  not  as  fair  and  beautiful  as  in  earlier  days.  All 
are  dear  to  me.  Each  card  has  a  language  of  its  own ; 
speaking  to  the  heart  of  the  teacher  kindness,  affection, 
love.  The  modest,  attentive,  and  quiet  listener  to  the  lec- 
ture or  recitation ;  the  bolder,  more  energetic  and  inquir- 
ing spirit,  aspiring  for  information  and  truth ;  the  mirthful 
glance,  or  mischievous  whisper,  are  vividly  impressed  at 
the  glance  of  the  name.  More  than  once  has  the  tear 
fallen  during  the  examination  of  these  treasures  ;  but  the 
pleasure  L  derive  from  this  secret  communion,  as  it  were, 
with  the  absent  of  by-gone  days,  outweighs  the  pain. 
Should  this  story  meet  the  eyes  of  any  who  recognize  a 
portrait,  and  they  are  desirous  of  seeing  the  original  card, 
they  can  be  accommodated  by  patiently  diving  to  the  bot- 
tom of  my  cherished  card-basket. 


6. 


^ 


^^^IfiHM^     J^^l^<^ 


FIRESIDE    VERSES. 


BT     BERNARD     BARTON. 


The  gladsome  hearth — the   gladsome  hearth, 
Whose  social  thoughts  flow  free, 

Through  all  the  shifting  scenes  of  life. 
The  fond  heart  turns  to  thee. 

The  cheerful  hearth — the  cheerful  hearth, 

Where  childhood's  happy  voice 
Gladdens  the  twilight  hour  of  rest. 

And  bids  each  home  rejoice. 

The  holy  hearth — the  holy  hearth, 

Around  whose  sacred  flame, 
Each  household  chu,rch  doth  daily  bow 

To  plead  a  Saviour's  name. 

The  blessed  hearth — the  blessed  hearth. 

By  hearts  encircled  round. 
Whose  rule  of  Hfe,  and  on  whose  lips 

The  law  of  love  is  found. 

The  saddened  hearth — the  saddened  hearth, 
Whose  sweetest  sounds  are  stilled. 

The  vacant  seat,  the  tone  subdued, 
The  eye  with  tears  oft  filled. 


182  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

The  quenched  hearth — the  quenched  hearth. 

Whose  flame  will  yet  arise, 
Will  yet  impart  its  cheerful  glow. 

To  welcome  strangers'  eyes. 

Thus  human  hearths — thus  human  hearths. 

Their  daily  records  tell, 
Of  human  hopes,  extinct,  o'erthrown. 

Which  seem  unquenchable. 

There  is  an  home — an  endless  home. 

To  it  we  fondly  turn  ; 
Where  buried  hopes  immortal  made. 

With  purer  flame  shall  burn. 


FLIRTATION. 

"  What  tender  things  was  Weston  whispering  in  your 

'  charmed   ear'   last  evening,   my  demure   coz  ?     I  really 

felt  very  like  an  intruder,  as  I  entered  the  arbor  in  search 

of  you — anything    but  being  a  third  person  in  such" — 

Mary  Ann   Dorr  stopped  speaking  suddenly,    as,   to  her 

surprise,  she  saw  her  cousin  colored  deeply,  "  cheek,  brow, 

neck  and  bosom,"   and  fix  her  eyes  on  the  ground,   with 

an   expression  of   deep    embarrassment.     There  was  an 

appearance  of  distress  mingled  with  her  emotion,  which  at 

once   stemmed  the  tide  of  raillery  with  which   she  had 

accosted   her.     Passing   her  arm  fondly  about  her  neck, 

she  continued,  half  reproachfully,  "  I  did  not  think,  Helen, 

that  you  would  have  concealed  from  me  your  feelings  on 

this   subject ;   me,   who  you  know  to   be   interested  like 

yourself  in  all  your  concerns — but  I  see  how  it  is,  Weston 

has  won  that  good  heart  of  thine  ;  do  not  deny  it,  Helen — 

only  be  sure  it  is  an  even  bargain." 

"  I  believe  I  have  received  ah  equivalent,  cousin,  I 
believe  that — Edmund  does  love  me — at  least,  if  I  may 
judge  from  his  manner,  it  certainly  has  long  expressed 
the  truest  affection.  Perhaps  it  is  vanity  in  me  ;  but  I 
have  thought  he  was  attached  to  me  ever  since" — She 
hesitated,  overpowered  with  that  shame  which  every 
delicate  woman  feels  at  owning  a  preference  for  which 
she  is  not  sure  of  an  open,  decided,  honorable  return. 
With  her  burning  brow  covered  in  her  hands,  and  her 
whole  attitude  expressive  of  the  most  painful  and  humil- 
iating  confusion,    she  awaited  her  cousin's   calm   reply. 


184  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

To  her  it  would  be  a  sentence  ;  so  highl}-  did  she  respect 
her  judgment  and  delicacy,  and  so  fearlessly  did  she  trust 
her  heart  in  her  hands. 

Helen  was  not  a  vain  girl,  neither  was  she  peculiarly 
susceptible ;  but  her  heart  was  warm  and  affectionate, 
and  her  gratitude  for  attentions  was  so  intense,  that  she 
was  ever  in  danger  of  feeling  too  deeply,  too  devotedly. 
A  painful  sense  of  her  inferior  claims  to  personal  attrac- 
tions contributed,  perhaps,  to  enhance  this  sentiment — 
for  Helen  was  never  deemed  beautiful,  even  by  her  most 
partial  friends.  To  those  who  knew  well  her  ardent  and 
generous  disposition,  her  lofty  and  pure  heart,  her  culti- 
vated and  refined  intellect,  her  rich,  beautiful  imagination, 
she  ever  appeared  lovely  ;  but  to  strangers,  her  counte- 
nance was  even  uncomely.  A  scar  on  her  temple  gave 
her  face  a  forbidding  expression,  and  years  of  delicate 
health  had  prevented  her  dark  complexion  from  being 
enlivened  with  the  rich  glow  that  gives  so  much  beauty 
to  the  brunette.  When  animated  by  conversation,  or 
agitated  with  emotion,  you  would  forget  that  she  was  not 
beautiful,  so  beaming  Avas  her  face,  so  expressive  and 
intelligent  her  large  hazel  eyes ;  but  as  emotion  sub- 
sided, her  features  rested  in  an  expression  placid,  but 
repelling. 

Mary  Ann  Dorr  knew  her  perfectly,  she  thought — 
but,  as  often  happens,  the  inner  feelings  of  the  heart  are 
more  apparent  to  a  stranger  eye,  than  to  the  unsus- 
pecting one  of  intimate  friendship.  There  was  not  a 
gossip  in  the  town  who  did  not  assert  the  positive  engage- 
ment of  Miss  Helen  to  young  Squire  Weston,  and  not 
an  eye  or  a  heart  which  did  not  truly  interpret  the  smile 
and  the  blush  that  overspread  Helen's  face  at  any  allu- 
sion to  him,   save  that  of  the  watchful  friend  with  whom 


FLIRTATION.  185 

she  resided,  and  who  deemed  herself  fully  aware  of  the 
terms  on  which  they  stood,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  con- 
tradict the  assertion  of  any  undue  interest  between  the 
parties.  Now  that  she  did  understand  Helen's  feelings, 
she  was  surprised  and  distressed. 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  dear  Helen,  that  your  good  heart 
is  affected  by  Weston's  worth  and  devoted  attention 
to  you ;  you  would  not  be  woman  were  it  otherwise  ;  but 
I  will  not,  cannot  believe  it  is  irrevocably  given,  iintil  it  is 
openly  and  honorably  claimed.  No,  my  friend — keep 
your  heart.  Why  has  not  Weston  avowed  his  preference 
in  plain  manly  terms,  and  sought  you  as  a  high-minded 
man  ought  and  would  do  ?" 

"  Dear  Mary  Ann,  what  can  I  do  ?  I  cannot,  would 
not  for  worlds  allow  Edmund  to  think  I  am  waitintj  for 
him  to  offer  his  hand  ;  I  cannot  treat  him  coldly,  it  would 
be  indelicate — it  is  impossible." 

"  No,  true,  you  cannot;  the  conquest  must  be  in  your 
own  soul.  Let  your  manner  to  him  continue  as  usual ; 
but,  as  you  value  your  peace  of  mind,  restrain  your  feel- 
ings ;  regard  his  professions  as  idle  ;  do  not  think  of  them. 
It  is  more  necessary  than  you  can  imagine,  that  your 
affections  should  be  under  your  own  guidance  and  regu- 
lation ;  necessary  not  only  to  your  peace,  but  even  to  your 
purity  of  mind.  Perhaps  my  ideas  on  the  subject  of  love 
are  singular,  dear  Helen  ;  but  I  have  never  considered 
that  heart  as  very  valuable,  which  is  so  susceptible  as  to 
take  an  impression  from  every  seal  of  beauty  and  manli- 
ness it  may  happen  to  meet,  till  its  most  delicate  sympa- 
thies, and  most  beautiful,  hidden  devotedness,  are  frittered 
away  by  the  very  variety  of  the  action  of  that  heart.  The 
confession,  that  we  love,  cannot  be  repeatedly  and  variously 
made,  even  in  the  chambers  of  our  own  souls,  without  in- 
9* 


186  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

juring  the  price  and  purity  of  the  confession ;  and  to  a 
deUcate  and  reflecting  mind,  how  far  deeper  and  holier  is 
that  '  hid  treasure'  of  aff"ection,  which  wells  up  from  the 
guarded  fountains  of  years,  than  the  babbling,  shining  rill, 
that  smiles  in  the  sun,  and  spends  itself  in  the  smile. 
Pardon  my  sermon,  Helen — and,  as  I  live,  here  comes  the 
youth  himself." 

Edmund  Weston  entered  the  apartment  with  a  smile 
and  a  bow  to  the  cousins ;  and  a  very  fascinating  smile 
and  bow  they  were.  His  fine  countenance  was  flushed 
with  exercise,  and,  passing  round,  he  seated  himself  by 
Helen,  and  threw  a  handful  of  roses  into  her  lap.  There 
was  something  so  elegant,  so  graceful,  so  altogether  what 
is  called  ''  taking"  in  his  manner,  that  Mary  Ann  wondered 
at  her  own  stupidity  in  not  having  foreseen  the  conse- 
quences of  an  exposure  to  such  fascinations.  Weston  was 
one  of  those  gifted  beings  who  are  peculiarly  susceptible 
of  all  the  noble  and  beautiful  in  the  moral  and  natural 
world  ;  who  draw  intense  delight  from  the  hue  of  a  flower, 
the  beaming  of  a  soft  star-light,  whom  an  expression  of 
friendly  interest  has  power  to  thrill  with  pleasure ;  in 
short,  one  whose  enjoyments  were  too  deep  and  ardent  to 
be  called  by  the  usual  names  that  represent  them  ;  his 
friendships  were  loves  ;  his  vexation  was  deep  grief; 
wounded  feeling  was  an  agony.  With  a  mind  highly  cul- 
tivated, a  fancy  delicate,  changing,  and  glittering  as;  a  sun- 
beam, a  store  of  valuable  information  on  any  and  every 
subject,  it  is  not  strange  that  Helen  found  in  his  society 
peculiar  charms.  When  I  add,  that  in  his  manner  to  fe- 
males there  was  a  devotedness,  an  earnestness  the  most 
flatterintr  to  the  sex,  thouah  at  the  same  tiiiio  the  most 
misleadinijf  ;  and  that  this  devotedness  had  been  for  the 
last  three   months  addressed  wholly  to    Helen  ;  who  will 


FLIRTATION.  187 

censure  her  for  believing  herself  preferred  before  all  other 
women,  or  for  giving  herself  up  to  the  delight  which  the 
idea  aft'orded  her  ? 

Weston  loved  Helen's  society  certainly  ;  he  thought  her 
superior  to  any  female  he  had  ever  known  ;  he  fully  ap- 
preciated the  beauty  of  her  mind  ;  and,  in  conversing  with 
her,  he  felt  a  sympathy,  an  union  of  feeling  and  tastes, 
which  he  had  never  felt  before.  I  am  even  inclined  to 
think  that,  for  the  time,  he  fancied  he  loved  her ;  for 
Weston  was  "  an  honorable  man ;"  honorable  in  the  view 
of  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  and,  what  was  of  more 
importance,  in  his  own.  Had  any  one  told  him,  in  so  many 
words,  that  he  was  winning  Helen's  love  without  design- 
ing a  return,  he  would  not  have  believed  it  of  himself ;  but 
the  gratification  of  vanity,  in  seeing  himself  an  object  of 
interest  to  a  high-hearted  and  enthusiastic  being,  could  not 
be  resisted;  and  then,  there  was  the  opiate — "  she  will 
never  remember  it ;  she  is  too  sensible,  too  independent, 
too  much  accustomed  to  such  attentions  to  think  of  them" 
— that  lulled  the  remorseless  feelings  which  would  some- 
times seize  him,  after  witnessing  the  blush  and  sigh  that 
followed  some  fervent  demonstration  of  his  own  regard, 
and  which  he  could  not  help  seeing  was  not  the  calm 
beaming  of  friendship.  Weston  was  not  blinded  ;  he  saw 
the  pleasure  with  which  his  society  was  greeted,  above 
that  of  a  circle  of  very  endeared  friends ;  he  could  not 
but  see  her  tastes  assimilating  themselves  to  his ;  he  saw 
her  loving  the  things  he  loved,  and  correcting  herself  of 
what  he  deemed  faulty  in  her  character.  Yet  he  contin- 
ued to  pay  her  all  those  silent  and  minute  attentions  which 
steal  the  heart  surely  and  unconsciously,  and  trusted  to  a 
firmness  in  Helen's  heart,  as  her  safeguard,  which  he  was 
fatally  undermining. 


188 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


I  have  digressed  thus  much,  in  order,  if  possible,  to 
give  some  idea  of  Weston's  real  feelings  and  intentions. 
His  is  not  a  solitary  instance  ;  there  are  many  such  men 
cherished  in  society,  nay, /who  believe  themselves  worthy, 
and  who  would  shrink  from  the  imputation  of  a  dishonora- 
ble act  as  from  death.  Perhaps,  had  Weston  known  the 
full  extent  of  the  mischief  his  idle  vanity  had  wrought, 
he  would  have  regretted  it  deeply,  and  censured  himself 
severely  ;  but  he  never  did  know  it. 

I  left  him  seated  with  the  cousins.  Mary  Ann  left 
them  for  some  household  duty,  and  Weston  was  triflino- 
with  some  beautiful  moss-roses,  binding  them  among  the 
chesnut  curls  that  hung  profusely  about  Helen's  brow, 
and  saymg  some  very  poetical  thi.ngs  on  the  subject  of 
flowers  in  general,  and  moss-roses  in  particular.  Helen 
was  fond  of  flowers,  as  all  women  should  be  ;  and  she 
repeated  those  lines  of  a  gifted  poet,  beginning,  "  The  an- 
gel of  the  flowers  one  day,"  with  much  animation. 

"  There  is  a  story  that  lingers  in  my  memory  but  faintly, 
which  grew  out  of  the  custom  of  afiixing  ideas  to  flowers. 
I  beheve  it  is  in  Berkeley's  Romance  of  Gaudentio  di 
Lucca.  The  Mazzoronians,  with  a  simplicity  worthy  the 
early  days,  used  the  rose  as  an  emblem  of  love.  A  bud 
accepted,  encouraged  the  dawning  of  affection  in  those 
single-hearted  beings ;  a  half-blown  rose  was  the  token  of 
a  deeper  and  dearer  feeling  ;  and  the  acceptance  of  a  full- 
blown rose  AYas  considered  as  binding  as  the  most  solemn 
engagement.  I  do  not  know  that  there  was  ever  a  viola- 
tion of  this  simple  and  beautiful  compact.  The  story  is 
one  of  deep  interest,  full  of  fanciful  beauty  and  touchincj- 
pathos.     I  will  bring  it  to  you,  if  you  will  allow  nie." 

As  Weston  spoke,  he  disengaged  one  of  the  half-blown 
roses  from  the  cluster,  and  bending  on  one  knee,  with  an 


FLIRTATION.  189 

air  of  mock  gallautry,  laughingly  offered  it  to  Helen. 
Nothing  could  have  been  easier  to  an  indifferent  person, 
than  an  acceptance  of  the  proffer,  and  a  sportive  rejoin- 
der ;  but  Helen's  mind  was  full  of  the  conversation  that 
had  just  passed  between  herself  and  her  cousin,  and  her 
heart  rose  to  her  lips  in  tumultuous  emotion.  With  a  sud- 
denness that  alarmed  Weston,  she  flung  the  rose  far  from 
her,  and  rising  hastily,  and  pressing  both  her  hands  on  her 
temples,  that  throbbed  to  bursting,  she  sought  the  silence 
of  her  own  apartment. 

Helen  had  a  proud,  though  an  affectionate  heart ;  and 
the  suspicion,  which  for  the  first  time  pressed  iipon  her, 
that  she  was  trifled  with,  pierced  her  to  the  soul.  In  an 
agony  of  wounded  feeling  and  delicacy  she  passed  the 
night.  With  the  bitter  sorrow  that  comes  from  the  feel- 
ing of  slighted  love,  she  mingled  the  degrading  thought, 
that  she  had  given  that  love  unsought ;  for  in  the  first 
paroxysm  of  disappointed  affection  she  reproached  only 
herself. 

"  It  is  my  own  fault.  I  ought  to  have  received  his 
kindnesses  as  they  were  meant.  I  ought  to  have  seen 
that  they  were  merely  friendship — I — I  only  am  to 
blame." 

It  was  Helen's  generous  nature  spoke  ;  she  chose  rather 
to  criminate  her  own  imprudence  than  injure  another  in 
thought.  I  do  not  acquit  her  of  weakness.  Could  her 
heart  have  been  seen  in  that  bitter  struggle,  many  a  weak 
and  wrong  thought  might  have  been  discovered  ;  but  they 
were  subdued,  and  the  humbled  spirit  rose  calm  and  pure 
from  the  trial. 

Helen  knew  too  well  the  frailty  of  our  best  resolves,  to 
trust  hers  to  circumstance  or  impulse.  She  separated 
herself  from  the  friends  she  loved  so  much,  and  removed 


190 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


from  the  dangerous  influence  of  Weston's  attractions.  The 
parting  pressure  of  the  hand,  so  fervent,  so  speaking  ; 
the  earnest  and  imploring  glance  with  which  he  begged 
her  sometimes  to  think  of  him,  as  he  should  ever  of  her  ; 
all  these  and  a  train  of  similar  thoughts  were  resolutely 
banished  from  her  mind,  for  Helen  knew  that  memory  was 
as  deceitful  and  dantjerous  as  it  was  delischtful,  and  she 
was  bent  on  the  conquest  of  herself.  In  the  comparative 
isolation  of  her  present  situation,  she  found  many  moments 
which  she  would  gladly  have  given  to  the  indulgence  of 
remembered  pleasures  ;  many  twilights  recalled  those 
when  one  very  dear  walked  quietly  by  her  side,  or 
breathed  thoughts  of  deep  beauty  in  her  attentive  ear. 
His  voice  mingled  with  the  tones  of  her  piano ;  his  pen- 
cil traced  characters  of  peculiar  grace  on  the  paper  be- 
fore her ;  he  had  so  entwined  his  image  with  every 
event,  every  circumstance  that  was  delightful  in  retro- 
spection, that  she  sometimes  almost  despaired  of  effecting 
her  object. 

A  year  passed,  and  she  was  again  with  her  friend.  Per- 
haps her  countenance  was  less  animated  than  in  former 
days,  as  her  person  was  evidently  wasted  by  mental  suf- 
fering ;  yet  the  cheerful  smile  was  ever  ready  for  her 
friends,  and  if  there  was  an  effort,  it  was  not  evident. 

"And  so  Rose  Elvvyn  has  arrived  at  last.  I  had  alifiost 
despaired  of  seeing  her,  she  has  so  long  delayed  her  visit ; 
she  will  probably  be  with  us  to-night,  and  I  understand 
she  is  accompanied  by  Edmund  Weston,  as  bridegroom 
elect." 

As  Mary  Ann  made  this  forced  remark,  she  did  not 
look  at  Helen,  who  sat  quietly  netting  by  her  side,  and 
who  made  no  sort  of  reply.  Curiosity  at  length  overcame 
her  delicacy,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Helen's  face.  Pale 


FLIRTATION. 


191 


as  ashes,  she  sat  hke  a  statue,  her  eyes  fixed  steadfastly 
on  Mary  Ann,  as  if  she  would  read  her  soul. 

"  Dearest  Helen,  you  are  ill !  let  me  do  something  for 
you  ;  let  me  give  you  something,"  cried  her  cousin,  now 
seriously  alarmed — but  Helen  did  not  move  or  speak — she 
smiled  at  last,  but  such  a  smile — so  sad,  so  full  of  woe  ! 
At  length,  deep-drawn  sighs  and  repeated  sobs  announced 
returning  consciousness,  and  a  heavy  gush  of  tears  gave 
relief  to  her  overcharged  spirit ;  it  was  the  last  evidence  of 
weakness,  and  this  was  of  the  frame  rather  than  of  the  soul. 

Imagination  has  never  pictured  a  lovelier  being  than 
Rose  Elvvyn.  Her  tiny  and  graceful  form  scarce  veiled  the 
more  beautiful  spirit,  and  in  the  deep  blue  of  her  large 
melancholy  eyes  there  was  a  world  of  thought  and  heart. 
Her  voice  was  melody  itself,  and  though  she  spoke  but 
little,  what  she  said  was  always  full  of  sweetness  and  gen- 
tleness. The  tint  on  her  cheek  was  not  so  deep  as  the 
blush-rose,  and  it  was  ever  coming  and  going  with  the 
changes  of  her  soul.  A  beautiful  beina^  she  was  to  gaze  on  I 
to  worship  as  the  embodying  of  beauty  ;  and  to  weep 
over,  as  one  gazed,  that  so  fair  a  form  was  so  evidently 
vanishing  from  earth.  As  Helen  looked  on  her,  she  did 
not  marvel  that  Weston's  whole  heart  was  given  to  her  ; 
and  though  she  felt  a  crushing  of  the  spirit  as  she  saw  the 
well-known  fascinating  smile,  and  heard  the  soft  tones  of  a 
well-remembered  voice,  the  hovering  form  whose  anxious 
affection  anticipated  the  slightest  wish  ;  when  she  saw  all 
this  bestowed  on  another,  and  felt  his  altered  manner  to 
herself,  she  quelled  the  rising  of  resentment,  she  buried 
deeper  the  memory  of  wrong.  They  do  not  know  the 
heart  of  woman,  who  believe  Helen  had,  or  ever  could, 
arsrue  herself  into  indifference  for  Weston.  Hers  was  a 
better  feeling.      She   had   disciplined  her  spirit  to  look 


192  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

calmly  on  his  union  with  another  ;  to  promote  it,  if  in  her 
power  ;  she  had  overcome  the  pride  of  an  injured  woman, 
and  the  principle  on  which  she  acted  forbade  her  to  pun- 
ish the  offender. 

Weston  was  thoroughly  deceived  by  the  calm  and  friend- 
ly manner  in  which  Helen  interested  herself  in  the  pros- 
pects of  the  lovers  ;  if  the  feeling  of  remorse  had  ever 
visited  his  bosom  for  the  deception  he  had  practised  on 
her  mind,  it  was  completely  banished. 

"  She  could  not  do  thus,  if  she  had  ever  loved  me," 
he  thought ;  but  he  knew  not  a  female  heart. 

Rose  Elwyn  was  portionless,  and  though  Weston's  for- 
tune was  sufficient  for  his  own  support,  or  even  competent 
for  that  of  an  active  and  diligent  helpmeet,  it  was  not  to 
be  thought  of  in  the  present  case.  Rose  was  a  beautiful 
and  frail  plant,  that  needed  continual  cherishing  and 
watchino-  and  could  not  brook  the  rain-cloud  or  the  ijust. 
With  some  personal  sacrifices,  Helen  was  able  to  place 
independence  in  the  grateful  hand  of  Rose :  by  the  death 
of  her  only  near  relative  she  had  been  possessed  of  a 
handsome  property,  and  enough  was  left  for  her  own 
limited  desires.  When  all  obstacles  were  removed  to  the 
union  of  her  friends  ;  when  she  had  seen  the  eloquent  face 
of  Weston  glowing  with  delight,  and  the  touching  beauty 
of  Rose  gratefully  beaming  with  feeling,  and  knew  and 
felt  that  it  was  her  own  work,  she  blessed  Heaven  that  she 
had  been  able  to  "  overcome  evil  with  good." 

The  sweet  blossom  which  Weston  had  gathered  and 
placed  in  his  bosom,  drooped  in  the  sun  of  happiness ;  the 
dew  of  afl'ection  could  not  reach  it;  it  bent  in  fragrance  to 
the  earth ;  and  in  one  short  year  from  the  hour  that  Rose 
Klwyn  had  left  the  village  a  blooming  bride,  she  was  laid 
to  her  rest. 


FLIRTATION.  193 

Many  years  have  now  passed,  and  Helen  is  no  longer 
young ;  a  plain  muslin  cap  covers  the  ringlets  which  now 
are  not  glossy  or  dark ;  and  the  large  brilliant  eyes  have 
become  so  dependent  as  to  seek  aid  in  a  manner  the  most 
unfavorable  to  good  looks.  You  may  see  about  the  mouth 
a  chastened  expression  that  betokens  an  habitual  struggle 
with  sorrow,  but  the  forehead  remains  bland  and  fair  as 
youth.  The  active  exercise  of  Christian  duty,  the  habit 
of  making  others  happy,  has  imparted  to  her  countenance 
"a  something  than  beauty  dearer;"  a  softness,  a  benevo- 
lence which,  in  her  happy  days,  she  had  not.  Many 
hearts  has  she  made  glad,  many  lips  has  she  wreathed 
with  smiles,  many  grateful  beings  look  to  her  as  the 
means  of  their  felicity.  True,  she  is  an  old  maid — true, 
she  sometimes  sighs,  as  she  enters  the  dwellings  of 
domestic  love,  and  witnesses  the  beautiful  charities  which 
grow  out  of  those  relations  only ;  but  she  does  not  repine; 
and  the  tear  of  regret  that  glitters  for  a  moment  on  her 
pale  cheek,  is  succeeded  by  the  upward  glance  of  grati- 
tude. 

I  have  never  asked  Helen  why  she  did  not  accept  the 
hand  that  Weston  offered  her  some  twenty  years  since ; 
the  sentiment  that  impelled  her,  for  perhaps  it  could 
hardly  be  called  a  reason,  will  find  an  echo  in  many 
hearts. 


LISTEN! 


BY    MISS     CAROLINE     E.    EGBERTS. 


Listen  !  dost  love  the  voice 

Of  wild  bird  on  the  air, 
As  up  he  soars — the  merry  heart 

Rejoicing  everywhere  ? 
Dost  love  to  hear  the  sound 

Of  water's  "silver  feet," 
Tripping  o'er  pebbles  round  and  smooth, 

To  music  low  and  sweet  ? 
The  streamlet's  careless  tone 

As  he  goes  singing  by, 
'Mid  flowers  that,  peeping  o'er  the  banks. 

Their  own  bright  faces  spy  ? 

Listen !  dost  love  to  hear, 

At  twiliiiht's  blessed  hour. 
Tones  of  the  lute  steal  o'er  thy  soul, 

With  their  resistless  power? 
Dost  love  the  huvian  sound 

Of  children  at  their  play. 
The  merry  laugh,  the  gleesome  shout. 

Telling  of  life's  young  day  ? 
Voices  of  friends  around 

The  consecrated  hearth, 
Tlie  pleasant  word,  the  kind  response. 

The  chastened,  quiet  mirth  ? 


LISTEN.  195 


Listen !  dost  love  to  hear, 

At  holy  hush  of  even, 
Voices  of  dear,  departed  ones, 

Novv  dwelling  up  in  heaven  ? 
Thy  father's  tone  of  love, 

Thy  mother's  gentle  word, 
Come  back  to  thee,  in  later  years. 

The  same  that  childhood  heard. 
Listen  !  to  cheer  thy  heart 

These  angel  voices  come. 
Whispering,  Onward  is  thy  path. 

And  upward  is  thy  home. 


REMINISCENCES   OF   THE  -AMERICAN 
REVOLUTION. 


BY     A     SOLDIER     OF     SEVENTY-SIX. 


In  the  beginning  of  the  autumn  of  1776,  a  few  days 
after  General  Washington  had  conducted  his  army  to  the 
heights  of  Harlem,  and  to  the  vicinity  of  Kingsbridge, 
and  the  British  troops  commanded  by  General  Howe  bad 
taken  possession  of  New  York,  several  of  their  soldiers' 
wives  were  observed  to  collect  together  in  a  larQ-e  frame 
building,  near  Whitehall-dock,  previously  designated  the 
"  Livingston  storehouse."  These  Avomcn,  for  the  purpose 
of  dressing  their  provisions,  procured  from  an  adjacent 
yard  a  number  of  pine  boards,  the  ends  o^  which  they 
placed  in  the  chimney,  while  their  opposite  points  rested 
upon  the  cedar  floor  of  the  apartment ;  to  this  the  fire 
rapidly  communicated,  when  the  careless  gipsies  had 
made  an  end  of  their  feast,  and  had  withdrawn  from  the 
heated  and  smoky  atmosphere  within,  to  enjoy  the  fresh 
sea-breeze  without.  The  cry  of  fire  was  heard  soon  after, 
and  fearfully  reiterated  from  every  quarter  of  the  city ; 
and  the  day  being  hot  and  dry,  the  flames  ran  through 
the  building  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  enveloping  in 
a  few  moments  the  whole  of  the  structure,  through  the 
top  of  which  the  fire  was  at  first  seen  to  arise  in  a  single 
splendid  column,  Avitli  its  ininiense  summit  curling  in  fan. 
tastic  wreaths,  amid   the  clouds  of  smoke  ;   but  instanta- 


A    soldier's    reminiscences.      197 

neously  clianging  its  appearance,  and  spreading  into  a  vast 
sheet  of  flame,  it  presented  an  object  at  the  same  time  of 
terror  and  admiration.  The  firemen,  ever  alert,  were 
readily  summoned  by  the  ringing  of  bells  and  other  signs 
of  alarm,  as  anxious  as  were  their  haughty  invaders'^ to 
subdue  the  destructive  element  before  them,  which  moved 
in  the  sun's  rays  with  the  subtlety  of  a  serpent,  whose 
sudden  evolutions  can  be  perceived  only  by  the  vividness 
of  its  colors. 

The  king's  officers,  uncertain  in  whom  to  confide,  or 
rather  regarding  in  each  individual  citizen  a  rebel  at  heart, 
became  suspicious  of  the  firemen,  and  seemed  to  dread  a 
counteracting  exertion  on  their  part;  under  which  persua- 
sion they  franticly  hurried  them  from  place  to  place,  and 
urged  them  with  oaths  and  imprecations  to  do  their  duty, 
which  the  poor  fellows  had  not  then  even  thought  of 
abandoning;  and  while  they  were  making  the  gi^eatest 
exertions  in  their  power  at  one  post,  and  ere  they  had 
time  to  quench  the  fire  there,  they  were  driven  to  an- 
other by  their  impetuous  commanders,  who  retarded  their 
endeavors  by  ruthlessly  beating  them  with  their  swords ; 
and,  in  some  instances,  it  has  been  said,  pushed  them  into 
the  flames.  Others  of  the  citizens,  perceiving  the  danger 
of  their  comrades,  fled  in  alarm  from  the  scene  of  terror 
and  confusion,  and  sought  refuge  from  their  enraged  pur- 
suers. While  the  discordant  cry  of  "  Punish  the  rebels !" 
mingled  with  the  shrieks  of  the  affi-ighted  women  and 
children,  and  with  the  deep  and  reiterated  call  of  fire  !  the 
gathering  flames,  wafted  by  a  strong  southerly  breeze,  and 
unchecked  by  a  proper  course,  had  rapidly  advanced  up 
the  whole  extent  of  Broadway,  communicating  with  the 
buildings  on  both  sides,  even  to  the  very  heart  of  the  city, 
and  threatening  its  total  destruction. 


198 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


An  idea  that  the  liberty  party  had  determined  on  de- 
stroying the  town  had  taken  such  possession  of  the  minds 
of  the  British  troops,  that  in  the  height  of  their  irritation 
they  threatened  death  to  every  man  who  should  be  found 
abroad  in  the  streets,  upon  whom  a  shadow  of  doubt 
could  fall  touching  his  loyalty  to  the  king. 

In  the  course  of  this  tumultuous  scene  a  noted  and 
active  tory,  by  the  name  of  ,  to  make  an  open  dis- 
play of  his  true  and  sworn  allegiance,  sallied  forth  into  the 
streets,  with  his  drawn  sabre  in  his  hand,  muttering 
"  downfall  and  death  to  all  rebellious  subjects."  In  his 
gallant  career  he  happened  to  encounter  a  company  of 
rude  and  exasperated  soldiers,  who  knew  nothing  of  his 
political  virtue,  and  disbelie\'ing  his  earnest  asseverations 
of  fidelity  and  attachment  to  their  cause,  they  charged 
him  with  an  intention  of  destroying  the  fire-buckets. 
"  Down  with  the  rebel  and  incendiary !"  they  cried,  and 
in  an  instant  the  poor  wretch  was  smitten  to  the  earth, 
where  he  rolled,  writhing  at  their  feet,  and  expired  cov- 
ered with  wounds  and  bruises.  They  then  dragged  his 
lifeless  body  to  the  upper  end  of  the  city,  i.  e.,  in  Pearl, 
near  Cherry-street,  and  suspended  it  by  the  feet  from  the 
sign-post  of  the  Hand  and  Hammer,  where  it  remained  for 
the  space  of  a  day,  a  fearful  example  to  the  timid  well- 
wishers,  as  well  as  to  the  secret  enemies  of  the  kinir. 

Meanwhile  the  fire,  threatening  its  worst,  had  gained 
an  alarming  height.  Of  the  western  part  of  the  city  the 
church  of  St.  Paul  and  one  dwelling  only  stood  iminjured  ; 
all  else  were  burned  to  the  open  fields,  presenting  a  scene 
of  noise  and  devastation,  amid  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust. 
But  to  attempt  the  giving  a  just  dosrription  of  the  tlisniay 
of  the  citizens,  and  the  exasperation  of  the  British  soldiery, 
would  task  the  powers  of  a  Paulding  or  a  Cooper. 


A    soldier's    reminiscences.      199 

As  soon  as  the  fire  was  extinguished,  and  the  tumult 
and  the  noise  had  abated,  all  was  restored  to  order  in  the 
city,  under  a  government  of  a  severe  military  discipline 
and  civil  regulation.  The  old  fortifications  and  the  breast- 
works of  the  city,  at  which  the  Americans  had  so  recently 
toiled,  with  strongly  excited  feelings  and  with  severe  in- 
dustry, were  now  regularly  and  well  manned,  and  were 
soon  rendered  strong  and  complete,  and  placed  in  the  best 
possible  state  of  defense,  while  the  banner  of  St.  George 
floated  proudly  over  the  most  advantageous  post  of  the 
country.  The  enemy,  thus  situated,  had  little  to  fear 
from  the  disheartened  army  under  General  Washington, 
to  which  the  horrors  and  fatigues  of  war  were  new  and 
dispiriting,  many  having  fled  in  terror  to  their  families  and 
homes,  totally  unused  to,  and  therefore  holding  in  disre- 
gard, all  military  discipline. 

General  Howe  occupied  the  finest  house  in  the  city, 
adjacent  to  the  Battery,  and  fronting  the  Bowling-green ; 
this  was  also  the  head-quarters  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  at  a 
later  period  of  the  war. 

Many  changes  were  made  in  the  public  buildings  as 
well  as  in  the  private  dwellings  of  New- York,  which  were 
both  disagreeable  and  torturing,  as  it  regarded  the  feelings 
of  the  citizens. 

The  places  of  public  worship,  that  were  not  of  the  Epis- 
copal order,  were  converted  into  hospitals,  prisons,  or 
guard-houses,  which  caused  great  off'ense  and  bitter  heart- 
burnings among  the  Calvinists,  Lutherans,  and  Quakers. 
But  this  was  a  pill  which  they  were  all  obliged  to  swal- 
low, although  it  caused  many  a  wry  face  and  suppressed 
murmur ;  and  when  a  crest-fallen  dissenter  happened  to 
pass  the  sacred  portal,  at  which  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  enter  to  unburden  himself  before  his   Creator,  it  was 


200 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


ever  and  anon  with  raised  hands  and  eyes,  or  with  a  shrug 
and  a  suddenly  averted  face  !  To  have  breathed  a  word 
indicative  of  his  rea:rets  or  resentments  would  have  been 
highly  impolitic,  for  if  overheard  by  a  jealous  adversary  it 
might  have  exposed  him  to  severe  punishment,  or  to  im- 
minent danger. 

The  old  jail,  as  it  is  now  called,  was  under  the  conduct 
of  Marshal  Cunningham,  who  was  then  the  provost,  and 
into  it  he  was  wont  to  crowd  the  unfortunate  rebels  who 
fell  into  his  iron  grasp. 

Cunninofham  was  a  man  strong  and  athletic  in  his  make, 
and  upwards  of  six  feet  in  height;  his  complexion  was 
florid,  but  his  countenance  was  harsh,  and  its  expression 
at  times  odious  in  the  extreme  ;  yet  he  could  smile  with 
his  boon  companions  over  a  bottle,  and  be  jocose,  pass  his 
jokes,  though  coarse  and  vulgar,  and  be  merry,  more  par- 
ticularly when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  some  dreadful  enormity,  which  he  had 
meditated  against  his  half-starved  prisoners.  Oh  !  could 
the  old  walls  of  that  prison-house  but  speak  the  secrets  of 
the  past,  what  horrid  deeds  would  they  not  reveal ! 
What  scenes  of  mortal  agonies !  Death  from  pestilence, 
famine,  and  poison !  But  I  must  turn  from  this,  the  reflec- 
tion is  too  dreadful,  and  continue  my  recital. 

General  Howe  had  regulated  and  arrantrcd  all  thinors 
in  the  city  according  to  his  own  pleasure ;  had  attended 
with  humane  care  to  the  comforts  of  his  soldiers,  and  had 
provided  his  oflScers  with  good  quarters,  where,  indeed, 
they  were  often  received  too  well,  and  with  too  studious 
a  care,  by  the  fairer  inmates,  and  greeted  by  them  with 
too  kind  a  welcome.  The  campaign  being  closed  a  few 
weeks  after,  and  the  winter  setting  in,  these  gentlemen 
had  much  leisure  to  reflect  on  the  measures  of  the  war. 


A    soldier's    reminiscences.      201 

its  future  battles,  and,  moreover,  on  the  certain  success  of 
their  arms ;  for  amona^  them  were  the  noble,  the  haughty, 
the  proud,  and  the  brave,  who  had  never  been  taught  the 
lessons  of  submission.  Nor  did  the  war  or  its  fortunes 
alone  occupy  their  minds  ;  they  had  other  and  more  agree- 
able avocations,  their  pleasures  and  their  pastimes. 

Their  favorite  amusement  seems  to  have  been  the  drama, 
which  they  studied  with  taste  and  care,  and  which  they 
brouglit  at  length  to  great  perfection.  Its  various  char- 
acters were  personated  by  the  most  elegant  and  refined 
gentlemen  of  the  army,  among  whom  the  unfortunate 
Andre  used  frequently  to  bear  a  part,  and  receive  distin- 
guished applause. 

Such  being  the  pursuits  of  the  officers  of  the  British 
army,  who  were  caressed  by  the  fair,  admired  wherever 
they  moved,  boldly  presuming  that  victory  over  our  land 
would  be  an  easy  task,  a  thing  at  any  time  within  their 
reach ;  is  it  to  be  wondered  that  the  time  and  opportunity 
should  have  been  allowed  to  pass  away,  wherein  a  con- 
summation such  as  that  might  have  been  effected  ?  That 
months  should  have  rolled  on,  unheeded  by  men  who  were 
made  too  happy  to  seek  or  wish  a  change  ? 

The  conquest  of  General  Gates  over  Burgoyne,  that 
brave  soldier  and  accomplished  scholar,  may  well  be  con- 
sidered as  the  dawn  of  American  glory;  for  until  that 
period  of  the  war,  the  English,  accustomed  to  triumph 
wherever  they  carried  their  arms,  had  never  for  a  moment 
doubted  their  own  invincibility ;  and  their  daily  papers, 
the  "Royal  Gazette,"  the  "New  York  Mercury,"  &c., 
had  hitherto  been  the  constant  vehicles  through  which 
misrepresentations  and  slurs  were  cast  against  the  conti- 
nental leader,  and  the  army  under  his  command.  Hence 
the  British  soldiers,  all,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest 
10 


202  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

grade,  looked  with  contempt  upon  the  foe  which  they  had 
come  to  conquer. 

For  some  weeks  previous  to  the  battle  of  Saratoga,  all 
regular  communication  between  that  place  and  New  York 
was  prevented  by  the  vigilance  of  that  part  of  the  Ameri- 
can army  which  lay  encamped  in  the  Highlands ;  there- 
fore, notwithstanding  that  the  English  in  the  city  were 
quite  certain  of  the  final  result  of  the  undertaking,  which 
was  to  annihilate  the  continental  army,  still  they  were 
anxious  to  learn  the  particulars  of  the  action,  and  the  time 
moved  with  heavy  step  that  brought  no  messenger. 
Crowds  each  day  collected  round  those  fountains  of  intel- 
ligence, the  printing-offices,  in  pleasing  expectation  of  the 
good  tidings,  but  nothing  could  be  obtained;  and  though 
they  were  confident  of  victory,  yet  hope,  long  suspended, 
had  become  almost  painful.  One  morning,  at  an  early 
hour,  an  old  Scotchwoman,  in  simple  attire,  appeared  at 
the  office  of  the  Royal  Gazette,  and  requested  to  see  Mr. 
Rivington,  the  editor,  who  was  by  no  means  so  tardy  in 
obeying  the  summons  as  modern  gentlemen  often  are  when 
they  have  learned  the  degree  and  condition  of  those  who 
wait  upon  them.  It  was  sufficient  that  an  aged  person 
and  a  female  waited  his  coming. 

"  Good  morrow,  madam,"  said  the  polite  editor,  pleas- 
antly, "how  do  you  find  yourself?  I  trust  your  early 
rising  will  do  you  no  harm." 

"  I  am  verra  weel,  an'  I  thank  yc  for  speering.  A  quiet 
morrow  to  ye,  sir.  An'  I  wad  na  hae  distuibed  ye  noo, 
but  tliat  I  am  auld,  an'  weary  too,  for  I  hae  travelled  a 
lang  way,  wi'  na  ither  conveyance  than  these  twa  feet,  ye 
see,  an'  which  hae  dune  me  muckle  service  these  fourscore 
gude  years,  but  nae  sae  sure  noo  for  stumblin'  a  bit." 

"  Pray   sit  down   and  rest  yourself,  while  you  relate 


A    soldier's    reminiscences.        203 

your  errand,"  said   Mr.  Rivington,  as  he  reached  her  a 
chair. 

"  Na,  I  thank  ye  kindly  ;  I  am  stiff  to  rise  when  ance 
I'm  doon ;  but  wull  ye  assist,  sir,  to  get  a  permit  that  I 
may  gang  my  ways  in  quietness  ;  forbye,  'tis  a  hmg  jour- 
ney fra  Albany  hither,  an'  a'  in  sae  short  a  time." 

"  From  Albany,  say  you  ?  Oh  !  and  what  of  Burgoyne, 
dear  madam  ?" 

"  He  is  safe  there,  he  is  safe  there,  hinny  ;  an'  these  twa 
een  saw  him  verra  weel,  an'  I  thank  ye." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  it  ?  Are  you  quite  certain  that  you 
saw  the  general  there  ?     In  Albany  '?" 

"  Oh,  just  as  sure  as  onything.  I  saw  him  ance  before  ; 
an'  I  suld  ken  him  weel  amang  a  thousand,  for  his  is  na 
the  look  that  ane  wad  forget  in  a  while,  he  is  sae  braw  an' 
bonny." 

"  Burgoyne  in  Albany  !  that's  news,  indeed !"  And  the 
delighted  editor  ran  about  the  room  in  ecstasy,  clapped 
his  hands  joyfully  together,  and  at  last  caught  the  old 
woman  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  with  as  much  fervency 
as  if  she  were  a  Hebe ;  then,  without  waiting  for  his  hat, 
he  hastened  to  head-quarters  with  the  news,  that  the  noble 
officer  there  might  participate  in  his  feelings. 

The  old  woman  stood  for  a  moment  aghast,  looking 
after  Mr.  Rivington,  for  whose  senses  she  began  to  enter- 
tain strong  doubts ;  and  she  had  just  seated  herself,  to 
ruminate  at  her  leisure  upon  the  violence  of  the  malady 
under  which  she  supposed  him  to  labor,  when  the  identi- 
cal madman  suddenly  re-entered  the  room,  half  out  of 
breath,  and  snatching  his  hat  and  cane,  he  drew  the  old 
woman's  arm  within  his  own,  and  said — 

"  You  must  accompany  me  to  head-quarters,  my  dear 
madam,  for  such  are  the  orders  of  the  commander-in-chief, 


204  THE      MOSS-KOSE. 

who  is  desirous  of  lieuriiig  iVoui  your  own  lips  the  glorious 
news." 

An  entire  cun\iclion  of  tlie  truth  now,  for  liie  first  time, 
darted  into  tlie  mind  of  the  aged  tra\elier;  and  she  &hw 
clearly  that  she  had  occasioned  some  terrible  mistake,  by 
not  being  more  explicit  in  her  relation,  yet  s>he  feared  to 
undeceive  her  gallant  attendant,  and  wisely  determined, 
after  a  little  retlection,  that  she  would  simply  answer  the 
questions  which  might  be  put  to  her  by  the  ulhcers ;  but 
that,  as  she  did  not  mean  to  witliiiold  the  truth,  so  on  the 
other  hand,  she  would  not  nuuiifest  it  ulUlece^sarily. 

They  soon  reached  head-tjuarters,  wliicli  were  thronged 
with  officers ;  and  seldom  before  had  there  assembled  &o 
many  delighted  countenances.  The  old  woman  was 
greeted  kindly,  as  she  was  conducted  through  the  crowd 
to  the  commander-in-chief,  who  shook  ln'r  hand  most  cor- 
dially, and  said — 

•■  Then,  my  good  womaji,  you  saw  (iejieral  lUirgoyne 
in  Albany,  did  you?" 

*•  Aye,  sir,  that  did  1." 

"  You  saw  him  yourself,  you  say  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  yes,  1  did." 

"  A  thousand  thanks  for  the  inloini:uion,  ami  hi-re  are 
three  guineas  to  punha.ie  you  a  tartan  plaidie  for  the 
coming  winter." 

"1  maun  «''en  tak'  it,  then,"  said  she,  pressing  tin*  pieces 
in  her  palm;  "  but  I  am  na  sae  huvv  that  I  sidd  neither, 
for  it  is  waur  I  ban  taking  charily  ;"  ami  she  olfered  t«>  rt}' 
turn  them,  but  (Jeneral  Howe  prevented  her  d<»ing  so,  by 
tpiii'tly  closing  her  lingers  upon  the  gold,  to  which  they 
seemed  to  adhere  naturally  enough,  and  with  a  friendly 
Stjuee/.e  he  di>niissi'd  her. 

Mr.  Kivington  followed  her  out  of  the  house,  and  kindly 


ilutxi^h  iltf  (>liy  (X.  lit')'  plti(i<3ii(c)      ttiivlHt^  olUrttttciil  ()tl< 

ftllw  \fH.  (Ilii    |V»ll<'«Ml|tiMH/    (H)>i  HUwId  (.Iwt  lt«>is(.  »r    )»n^  Wrty 

lo  III**'  ffloidU'  li.tii«t»,  In  iIm  M())»«i»  prttt  nf  fItM  I'lfy,     Tn 

slin  Imtt  iu>i'rt<!|itn'»«l,    Thd  «U)»y  w(N  (,«w  tjxjM.)  <<»  h^  unu) 
Ihi'tvil  j  «n«l,  Ih  l«it!«i  (lniH  ("iH  mlmilt»«»,  It  \»i»«*  ^riprirtftx), 
^viU)  flm  \mu\\  «*»«»{^ijn»tUl«»»i^,  i»  rtfe  lit>rt«*t  iltiny  |>rt»^«»m«, 

ri'Ui)   ^'Itimi)  HlOUiltc  It  c;|H<i<iit   lllirt  0   wIlUl^iHii 

ll  W0«5  tl<t«,  l<ttl{^;  itc  »H«ty  W«ll  l)«>  cU)»)t>t<!t'«l,  f|ri  •!»€<  »f<|)i))-f, 
tlOlt   |t»rti>||l»l   ImUmI   <jM<iM«>WJ    tmA   lilt*  <t()i.'ri^ft,    VP^r-'l    I't  (lit* 

Imrtf-t  jii  l)ciiH(|  fit)  i|.i,)t»jvn«l  hy  m  'M  wow«h«'«j  trtltj,  rt«i| 

jttdrttHil  l»t>ytt»til  (»)«if»«!ll|ii  <)(  dirt  MttWci  td'  dlti  t>ti|M.U(-M  %^ 
Miiif^ttytn*  «ntt|  Ilia  <»t»Hy,  cfHf  <i  filri  «ife<jii|i||H»«  Id  h»iM{j  tilt* 
ft^tttl  t>ul|Ml(  l»nrin«i  ilinni,  «H)i|  \^ltt»«  die)  rtji|)ri«»M't|,  <,|)t>y 

put  6t»Vtn<tl  >|IUie«|i|llfc  l<»  llti)    Killwn   ||«l»«!)||y,»HI<l  tldHUMItlwil 

why  eli«'  ImiiI  Mofc  U(l»l  iUm\  U»fkfc  IUh'^o^H'*  Wrt«s  <»  pij 
mmv  I 

•'  Vtt  (Ijiltm  tissji  »»«» i.lmf,"  «)m  inpllml,  «*WH)>ly,  i).»t»Htieyr 
lug  iIm' whllt»i  U(itm  witlt'lt  (litiy  Intjlttmuiily  .ihlti^tJij  hm* 
rtWrty, 

Ani'iUfi  (Ik*  v«>>|tiu«i  rt>»)>Tart(JMn«J  VthkU  vi^w  oUm^n  hf 
(ill)  (titllt^li  tiitit'Oic:  («<  iIkiI  (l(iy  It)  wlillo  imtiy  i||t>U  IttaiMc) 

\\im\ii,  •!»  (<l  l|()(j;ll)l<>  (lie)  (litlliiMI  (ll  ll|i|)li{ll(,  i\\ti  {^<OH<)  Mt 
^«l»#  ||cii)«U»U»  fl  ruVtlHIri    jmiUcp»H«*Mf,  )»  «ii»U«!i>f|l(t*»t<'t*  t)f   flit) 

MkitmiilD  ur  H\v  Mr»Hty  i!|iniiin,  who,  rtl  «m«  ))it»HMil,  iJnyMi^il 
JMilf  hU  ()»»«»  ft>  (hrtt  0>«i^n>i«it»,  )Milr<()ti,  tt»)  firt>Hjilmi*ly  wrtti 
htt  »Mijitii^«i«l  It)  (h«»  loHijfihU*  .i|»)|)|i»yiHt>Hl,  (hot  rtt  l*»M^(,h 
U)n  i»|ili»»,  i»»  m')r^  (lii)il»iii^  1)1  ih«'  t'il«liti)6  uHl1«)  hj««  oim- 
nirtO'l,  (i)f>i(  mill   tlU^ue^d't   Willi  iIk'  i<II<'  Ii(>    ihtiy  w^irt) 


*    A   l-MHll    l»)    lilt.    ',|.|    .(ly  hull.  ))•    >-l.i.lt.  |ii'  '■!    f|*t^    ^A}. 

(lit)    |«|(iy<)i    &    ••Mill      H<K-    llt'l't       »||Cr    'ttxli'tllt'l     l>l     II  ;  ;        OIJ 


206  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

obliged  to  lecad,  began  to  murmur  seriously,  and  to  throw 
out  hints  which,  though  indirect,  might  by  rebounding 
strike  the  ear  for  which  they  were  intended.  This  went 
on  for  a  while,  but  met  with  little  or  no  attention — for 
when  the  plebeian  counsels,  the  patrician  but  closes  his 
ear  more  closely. 

An  inclosure  at  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  John-street 
was  dedicated  to  this  game,  and  here  the  commander-in- 
chief,  in  company  with  a  select  party  of  officers,  was 
accustomed  to  come  and  amuse  himself  for  some  hours  on 
every  fine  day.  One  afternoon,  when  he  had  extended 
his  sports  to  an  unusually  late  hour,  and,  animated  by  his 
success  and  the  plaudits  of  bis  companions,  had  forgotten 
all  other  engagements,  an  arrow,  with  a  billet-doux  at- 
tached to  it,  alighted  amid  the  gay  group,  and  was  sud- 
denly snatched  up  by  one  of  the  younger  officers,  who, 
having  glanced  his  eye  over  it,  handed  it  resp(ictfully  to 
the  adjutant-general.  Andre  laughed  as  he  perused  the 
paper.  This  drew  the  attention  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton, 
who  approached  with  a  smile,  and  leaned  familiarly  over 
the  shoulder  of  Andre,  discovered  the  cause  of  bis  merri- 
ment by  reading  the  following  queries  and  replies : 

"  What  is  General  Washinoton  about?  Strenfjtheninsf 
his  fastnesses  in  the  Highlands  ;  and,  vigilant  of  time,  he 
devotes  each  moment  to  the  furtherance  of  the  cause 
which  he  has  espoused.  What  has  the  Marquis  de  Lafay- 
ette gone  after  ?  To  procure  succor  and  resources  from 
France  for  his  rebellious  brethren  here.  What  is  De 
Esteign  engaged  in  ?  Carrying  his  conquests  from  island 
to  island  in  the  J3ritish  West  Indies.  What  is  Paul  Jones 
after  ?  He  is,  with  his  scjuadron,  cruising  olf  Scarboro\igh- 
head  for  the  Baltic  fleet.  Well — and  what  is  Sir  Henry 
Clinton  doing  ?      Phnjiiuj  at  jives  !" 


A   soldier's   reminiscences.      207 

The  commander-in-cliief  colored  with  vexation,  while 
he  attempted  to  make  a  jest  of  the  pointed  rebuke ;  and 
drawinar  the  arm  of  Andre  within  his  own,  he  left  the 
inclosure  and  walked  away  towards  head-quarters ;  leav- 
ing the  rest  of  the  party  to  make  themselves  merry  at  his 
expense. 


OLD-FASHIONED    FLOWERS. 


BY      MES.      E.      A.     CUBTISS      HULCE. 


Old-fashioned  flowers  !  old-fashioned  flowers  ! 

Such  as  I  loved  in  childhood's  hours; 

A  butterfly  across  my  track 

Brings  all  my  school-day  loiterings  back ; 

The  wayside,  where  I  used  to  see. 

The  blossoms  of  the  alder  tree. 

Wliat  fairy  chains  hath  Nature  cast 
To  link  the  spirit  to  the  past ! 
A  bird's  song  on  a  summer's  day 
Speeds  lightning  thought  far  years  away  ; 
That  spot  where  we,  the  lake  beside, 
Tlnew  pebbles  in  its  glassy  tide. 
And  marked  the  wid'ning  circles  break, 
Like  many  a  dream  of  Fancy's  make. 

Exotics  of  the  sickly  room. 

Fashion  and  Art  may  nurse  their  bloom  ; 

Than  Dahlia  or  than  Fleur-de-lis — 

0,  give  old-fashioned  flowers  for  me; 

The  Button  with  its  sapphire  blue ; 

The  Marigold  of  topaz  hue  ; 

Tlie  queenly  Rose  hath  mastery  yet. 

And  the  turf-loving  \'iolet. 


OLD-FASHIONED     FLOWERS.  209 

With  velvet  leaf  of  Tyrian  dye, 

And  bending  mien  that  shuns  the  eye  ; 

These  that  have  memories  allied, 

The  path  along  the  old  hill-side ; 

The  meadow  offerings — childhood's  claim — 

That  recks  not  of  their  Linneean  fame. 

Ah  !  since  those  early  flowers  we  found, 
Gray  Time  hath  sped  his  wonted  round, 
Hope  and  fruition — cares  and  tears. 
Linked  to  the  coming  scroll  of  years, 
A  shadow  of  the  weary  strife. 
The  passion  fever  dream  of  life. 
Some  lines  of  silver  now  are  laid 
Among  the  locks  of  raven  braid  ; 
And  from  us,  some  are  gone  to  rest — 
Death  for  his  trophies  sought  the  best ! 
The  soft  blue  eye — the  placid  brow — 
Rest  in  the  church-yard  corner  now  : 
Peace  with  them  be  !  we  soon  shall  go 
To  sleep  those  flowery  sods  below. 
With  treasures  garnered  in  the  dust. 
Till  earth  and  sea  yield  up  their  trust. 
They  come  no  more,  their  blighted  race 
Hath  made  the  world  a  mournful  place. 
Whom  Earth  in  her  green  bosom  holds  ; 
They  call  us  to  the  land  of  souls. 

Then  cherish  as  the  kindliest  ties 
The  spirit's  varied  sympathies  ; 
Nor  doubt  that  He  these  gifts  who  lent 
Hath  each  on  Mercy's  errand  sent ; 
10* 


210 


THE    MOSS-ROSE 


And  links  of  love  in  earlier  hours 
Lie  buried  in  old-fashioned  flowers. 
The  midnight  heaven — that  starry  sea- 
Hath  whispers  from  thy  God  to  thee  ; 
And  He  who  man  from  Eden  hurled, 
Spared  flowers  to  grace  a  guilty  world. 


WINTER     RECOLLECTIONS. 


BY     THE     EDITRESS. 


In  the  winter  of  18 —  was  a  deep  fall  of  snow,  long  to 
be  remembered  by  the  gay  inhabitartts  of  New  York  city. 
For  weeks,  some  of  the  narrow  streets  were  rendered  im- 
passable by  the  great  accumulations  there  ;  but  not  so 
were  the  wider  and  more  fashionable  avenues.  Brilliant 
vehicles  containing  more  brilliant  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
and  joyous  faces  might  be  seen  peeping  between  furs  and 
feathers,  and  the  merry  musical  bells  played  by  the 
richly  caparisoned  horses,  passed  each  other  in  such  rapid 
succession  that  the  wary  foot-passenger  could  scarcely  cross 
the  street,  except  at  the  peril  of  his  life.  The  httle 
chimney-sweep,  enveloped  in  his  sooty  blanket,  oc- 
casionally sang,  "  Oh,  ho  !  sweep,  oh,  ho !"  but  seemed 
to  forget  his  labors  in  the  rare  sport  of  snowballing  his 
fellows.  The  jolly  milkman,  with  his  glistening  cans, 
crowded  his  way  to  the  doors  of  his  customers  ;  the  team- 
ster, with  his  fine  load  of  hickory  wood,  now  and  then 
halted  to  clap  his  numb  hands  briskly,  in  order  to  restore 
warmth  and  vigor.  The  heavy  omnibus  forced  its  way 
through  the  overflowing  streets ;  and  the  persevering  car- 
man nimbly  passed  between  the  obstacles,  with  a  skill 
which  practice  alone  could  confer.  Shovel  and  spade 
were  in  requisition  to  clear  the  door  steps  and  sidewalks 


212 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


of  their  snowy  treasures  ;  and  fortunate  was  the  passer- 
by who  heard  the  warning  admonition  of  "  Slun  miner  /" 
in  time  to  escape  a  deluge  of  sleet  and  snow  from  the 
heavily  laden  roof.  All  seemed  mirth,  and  joy,  and 
activity. 

But  was  all  indeed  activity,  and  joy,  and  mirth  ?  Were 
there  no  sad,  aching  hearts  ;  none  suffering  from  disease, 
poverty,  and  neglect,  in  that  great  metropolis  ?  Alas  ! 
how  many,  unknowing  and  unknown,  were  draining  the 
cup  of  wretchedness  to  the  dregs  !  How  little  reck  the 
rich  and  joyous  of  the  unseen  misery  which  may  be  found 
in  almost  every  street !  Little  would  they  suppose  that 
the  very  circumstances  which  add  so  much  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  wealthy,  will  exercise  a  contrary  influence 
over  the  poor  and  miserable.  Let  us  turn  from  the  gay 
and  brilliant,  to  an  opposite  picture  ;  more  useful,  perhaps, 
to  our  better  feelings,  if  not  so  pleasant. 

In  a  respectable-looking  street  running  north  from 
Canal,  and  parallel  with  Broadway,  might  be  seen  a  two- 
story  brick  building  with  a  closely  curtained  window, 
where  some  of  the  broken  panes  were  carefully  replaced 
with  white  paper ;  an  indication  that  some  poverty-stricken 
soul,  who  had  seen  better  davs,  was  lano-uishiiiix  in  sick- 
ness  there.  'Twas  the  middle  of  January,  and  for  some 
time  the  cold  had  been  intense  until  the  previous  dav — 
when  in  common  phrase,  "  tin-  weather  had  moderated," 
and  a  violent  snow-storm  succeeded,  which  continued 
through  the  following  night.  Morning  came,  and  the  dark 
and  threatening  skies  bore  striking  contrast  to  the  snow- 
clad  roofs  and  pavements.  The  very  few  trees  and  shrubs 
which  were  permitted  to  beautify  the  streets  in  summer, 
were  laden  with  snow-gems,  and  bending  bciu'adi  tlu'ir 
weight.      The  window   to  which  we  have  alluded  was 


WINTER     RECOLLECTIONS.  213 

nearly  half  hidden — the  bright  snow  ]ui\ing  drifted  in  the 
area,  lay  undisturbed  and  unstained. 

Within  that  cold  and  comfortless  room  a  niiddle-ased 
lady  was  lying  upon  a  bed,  which  was  one  of  the  few  use- 
ful articles  of  furniture  there.  Beside  her,  two  daughters 
had  sought  refuge  from  the  inclement  air  of  the  room. 

Not  thus  destitute  had  always  been  this  lady  and  her 
daughters.  In  early  life  she  was  an  heiress,  beautiful  and 
accomplished  ;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty,  with  the  consent 
of  her  parents,  gave  her  heart  and  hand  to  William 
Tracy,  a  junior  partner  in  her  father's  mercantile  establish- 
ment. For  a  while  they  were  prosperous  and  happy — 
fortune  smiled,  and  three  lovely  children  heightened  their 
joys.  But  some  unfortunate  speculations  deeply  involved 
the  concern,  and  rendered  it  necessary  that  Mr.  Tracy 
should  make  a  voyage  to  the  Indies.  With  many  sad 
forebodings  he  departed — hoping  to  return  in  three  years 
to  his  family.  Meantime,  at  home  misfortune  succeeded 
misfortune,  until  a  total  failure  was  the  residt  ;  and  soon 
after  Mrs.  Tracy  was  called  to  close  the  eyes  of  her  be- 
loved parents.  A  heavier  blow  awaited  her  :  news  arriv- 
ed that  the  ship  in  which  her  husband  sailed,  had  founder- 
ed, and  every  soul  perished.  She  was  left  destitute.  Her 
talents,  and  those  of  her  daugliler  Lucy,  who,  at  the  time 
our  story  commences,  was  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  were 
usefully  employed,  and  served  to  support  them.  But 
grief  weighed  down  a  constitution  naturally  frail,  and  she 
found  her  resources  rapidly  diminishing.  Edward,  a  prom- 
ising boy  of  thirteen,  at  his  own  request  was  bound  to 
a  printer  ;  Ellen,  three  years  younger,  long  the  pupil  of 
her  sister,  devoted  herself  wholly  to  the  care  of  her 
sick  mother.  Lucy  most  assiduously  plied  her  needle  in 
ornamental  work,  which,  at  that  time  commanded  a  great 


^l"*  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

price  ;  but,  alas  !  the  rich  forget  to  repay  the  labors  of 
the  poor  ;  or  rather,  as  they  know  no  want  themselves, 
they  cannot  appreciate  the  wants  of  others.     Will  not  this 
sin  be  visited  upon  those  thus  neglectful  ? 
But  to  return  to  our  snow-bound  basement. 
"  Oh,  Lucy  !"  said  the  mother,  in  a  voice  enfeebled  by 
suffering  ;  "  has  the  day  dawned  at  last  ?     This  has  been 
a  long,  lomj  night — and  so  cold  too.     Give  me"  a  drink, 
daughter  !" 

Lucy  hastened  for  a  cup  of  water  from  the  shelf,  and 
finding  it  frozen,  sought  to  pass  out  to  obtain  so  me  ;  but 
her  strength  was  unable  to  make  her  way  throuorh  the 
snow.  Taking  some  of  it  in  her  hand,  however,  she 
moistened  her  mother's  lips,  and  received  a  blessino-. 
After  a  pause,  Mrs.  Tracy  said — 
"My  daughter — my  dear  Lucy !  I  shall  soon  be  releas- 
ed from  the  trials  of  this  cold-hearted  world  ;  while  you, 
and  my  little  Ellen,  and  your  noble-hearted  brother  will 
be  left  orphans,  with  none  to  care  for  you  but  our  Heaven- 
ly Father.  May  you  be  the  objects  of  His  especial  kind- 
ness, and  love  and  serve  Him  forever !" 

Ellen  awoke  ;  and  in  that  cold,  desolate,  and  cheerless 
room — no  food — no  fire — nor  warmth  but  that  of  lovino- 
hearts,  a  prayer  went  forth  on  high — not  of  lip-service, 
but  a  fervent  outpouring  of  the  pious  soul. 

The  sisters  rose  from  their  bended  knees  ;  Ellen  re- 
peating, "  '  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  !'  and,  oh  ! 
comfort  my  mother  !" 

How  strong  the  ties  of  filial  love  !  And  firmer  still 
those  links  are  rivetted  when  all  other  joys  are  gone. 
Adversity,  stern  monitor,  oft  brings  to  li<rht  the  hidden 
virtues  of  the  human  heart ;  and  brightly  shone  those 
virtues  in  this  darkened  home.    They  chafed  their  mother's 


WINTER     RECOLLECTIONS.  215 

temples,  thus  seeking  to  impart  warmth,  health,  and  hope  ; 
nor  once  complained  of  cold  and  hunger. 

At  length  Lucy  said,  "  Shall  I  leave  you  with  Ellen  a 
few  minutes,  dear  mother?  I  wish  to  sfo  round  aa:ain  to 
see  Mrs.  Lawrence,  in  Beekman  street.  Perhaps  she  will 
let  me  have  some  money." 

"  It  is  in  vain,  my  daughter.  The  rich  have  few  sym- 
patliies  for  the  poor.  I  fear  she  will  think  your  frequent 
calls  troublesome.     You  know  you  were  there  yesterday." 

"  Yes,  mother ;  but  she  was  reading  then,  and  could 
not  be  disturbed,  and  bade  me  call  this  morning.  And  I 
am  stronger  now." 

"  Then  go,  my  dearest,  and  may  Heaven  protect  you! 
There  only  is  my  hope." 

With  less  fortitude  than  she  would  have  her  mother 
suppose,  the  delicate,  though  energetic  girl,  having  put  on 
a  hood  and  shawl,  prepared  to  go  out,  but  with  faint 
hopes  of  success.  Were  she  the  only  one  interested,  she 
would  rather  have  died  than  place  herself  in  a  position  to 
be  again  repulsed.  But  the  lives  of  a  mother  and  sister 
were  at  stake,  and  what  sacrifice  would  she  not  make  for 
them!  And  tremblingly  she  bent  her  footsteps  towards 
No.  — ,  Beekman  street.  Weak,  chilled,  and  sick  at 
heart,  she  ascended  the  steps,  but  paused  at  the  thresh- 
old ere  she  ventured  to  pull  the  bell.  "  If  I  should  not 
succeed?"  thought  she;  "but  I  will  remember  my 
trust ;"  and  she  passed  in  as  the  servant  opened  the  door. 

"  La  !  miss,  why  do  you  come  so  early  ?  Mistress  has 
not  breakfasted  yet ;  it  isn't  nine  o'clock.  But  sit  down 
in  the  hall  if  you  like,  and  I  will  tell  her  you  are  here." 

The  ofier  was  most  gladly  accepted,  for  her  limbs  refused 
longer  to  sustain  her  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  alone,  the 
tears  gushed  forth  to  relieve  her  wounded  spirit.     Soon 


216 


THE     MOSS-ROSE, 


the  door  of  llie  back  room  was  opened,  and  a  person 
approached  to  pass  out  of  the  house,  but  stopped  on  per- 
ceiving her,  and  said,  "  Young  lady,  do  you  wish  to  see 
Mrs.  L ?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir  ?" 

"  Well,  walk  in  this  room ;  she  will  soon  be  here. 
You  are  cold  ;  pray  be  seated  near  the  grate." 

The  voice  of  kindness,  except  from  her  own  family,  had 
long  been  a  stranger  to  her ;  and  stirring  up  the  deep 
fountains  of  her  heart,  again  sent  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
profusely. 

"  Have  I  distressed  you  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh  no,  sir ;  excuse  me,  I  was  thinking  of  my 
mother"—- 

At  this  moment  the  servant  entered,  saying  Mrs.  L 

was  engaged,  and  wished  her  to  call  again.     Mr.  L , 

seeing  her  agonized  look,  hastily  said,  "  Perhaps  I  can 
attend  to  the  business  as  well  as  my  wife,  if  you  will  let  me 
know  what  it  is." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  may  Heaven  bless  you  for  your  great  kind- 
ness !  My  mother  is  sick,  perhaps  dying  from  want ;  we 
have  neither  provisions  nor  fuel — and  I  came  to  ask  Mrs. 
L fur  the  payment  of  a  small  sum  of  money  for  em- 
broidering her  cape  last  summer.  Believe  me,  sir,  1 
would  not  have  troubled  her,  but  from  absolute  ne- 
cessitv." 

"  Indeed  !    what  is  the  amount  r" 

"Twenty  shillings,  sir.      I  wrought  it  at  half-price." 

"  Is  five  dollars  the  usual  price  for  embroidering  a 
cape  ?" 

"  It  is,  sir,  for  that  style,  when  there  is  so  much  work 
upon  it." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  do  it  for  half-price  ?" 


WINTER      RECOLLECTIONS.  217 

"  Because  Mrs.  L said   she   would  give   that,  and 

could  pay  no  more ;  and  at  that  time  I  had  no  other 
work.  Ask  her,  if  you  please,  bir^  and  she  will  tell  you 
so." 

"  It  is  unnecessary  at  present,  especially  as  she  is 
engaged.  Here  are  five  dollars,  the  worth  of  your  work, 
to  which  you  are  justly  entitled  ;  and  some  compensation 
is  surely  due  you  for  having  waited  thus  long.  Good 
morning." 

"  Oh,  my  mother !  your  hope  was  in  your  God  ! 
Blessed  be  his  name  for  ever !"  murmured  Lucy,  as  she 
rose  to  depart. 

A  third  person  had  been  sitting  unobserved  in  the 
recess  of  a  window,  apparently  absorbed  with  a  book  ; 
but  he  hastily  closed  it,  and  throwing  on  his  cloak,  fol- 
lowed her  at  a  little  distance.    Mr.  L ,  also,  prompted 

by  curiosity,  or  a  holier  feeling,  walked  on  to  observe  her 
movements  ;  and  both  found  it  necessary  to  quicken  their 
pace  to  keep  sight  of  the  young  girl,  so  rapidly  did  filial 
love  and  anxiety  hurry  her  forward.  The  stranger  paused, 
and  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  saw  her  descend 

to  the  area  of  her  basement  room  ;  but  Mr.  L walked 

down  soon  after,  and  rapping  at  the  door,  was  admitted. 
What  was  his  amazement  to  see  the  pallid  face  of  the 
mother  leaning  upon  the  bosom  of  little  Ellen,  and  the 
room  so  cold,  so  comfortless  !  Lucy  hastened  to  inform 
her  sick  parent  of  their  good  fortune,  and  immediately 
left  to  buy  bread. 

Mr.  L asked  Ellen  if  she  had  eaten  anything  that 

day. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Nor  yesterday  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 


218  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

"  Had  you  no  bread  ?" 

"  We  had  some  the  day  before  ?" 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  L filled  with  tears,  and  turning 

away,  he  hastily  ascended  the  steps,  and  walked  rapidly 
on.  Little  had  he  expected  to  find  such  extreme  poverty 
and  suffering,  and  his  heart  yearned  to  relieve  the  dis- 
tressed. Though  not  rich,  he  was  a  merchant  of  good 
standing,  and  though  he  seldom  gave  the  common  beggar, 
was  not  backward  to  relieve  the  deserving  poor.  He  felt 
the  importance  of  the  trust  which  the  Creator  had  con- 
fided to  his  care ;  and  by  acts  of  kindness,  as  well  as  of 
charity,  caused  many  a  sorrowing  heart  to  sing  for  joy. 
"  Some  fuel  must  first  be  obtained,"  thought  he  ;  "  though 
the  deep  snow  may  prevent  any  from  being  carried  through 
the  streets  this  morning,  I  may  find  some  at  the  wood- 
yards.  Fortunately,  however,  near  the  corner  of  Broad- 
way and  Canal  street,  he  obtained  sight  of  a  load  of  wood. 
Learning  it  was  not  sold,  he  asked  the  price,  and  taking 
the  money  from  his  wallet,  was  placing  it  in  the  hand  of 
the  teamster,  and  requesting  him  to  drive  to  the  basement 
he  had  just  left,  when  the  stranger  who  had  breakfasted 
at  his  house  came  up,  and  presenting  a  well-filled  purse, 
claimed  the  right  to  pay  for  the  wood  himself — having 
great  wealth,  and  at  present  no  one  to  share  it  with  him. 

The  generous  Mr.  L ,  his  countenance  glowing  with 

benevolence  and  his  eyes  still  tearful,  declined  his  purse, 

and  desired   his  friend,  Mr.  T ,  to  send  a  physician 

there  without  delay ;  proposing  that  both  should  call 
together,  to  ascertain  what  was  necessary  for  the  comfort 
of  the  desolate  family. 

Dr.  W ,  of  C street,  a  man  eminent  in  his  pro- 
fession, as  well  as  for  his  Christian  virtues,  was  soon  seated 
by  the  bedside,  counting  the  pulse  of  the  invalid,  and  seek- 


WINTER     RECOLLECTIONS.  219 

ing  to  ascertain  her  disease  and  its  cause.  ''  A  brio-bt  fire 
blazed  cheerfully  upon  the  hearth  ;  the  remains  of  a  white 
loaf  were  upon  a  stand,  covered  with  a  clean  cloth ;  Ellen 
beside  her  mother ;  and  Lucy  preparing  to  make  a  little 

broth  for  the  invalid.     Dr.  W lengthened  his  call, 

contrary  to  the  general  practice  of  city  physicians,  at 
length  prescribed  an  anodyne,  and  rose  to  depart,  saying 
he  would  call  again  soon. 

"Will  my  mother  recover?"  faltered  Lucy,  after  he 
had  passed  out  of  the  room. 

"  With  care,  I  think  she  will.  rfer  nervous  system  is 
prostrated.  Anxiety,  fatigue,  and  want  of  nourishing  food 
have  reduced  her  thus.  Be  careful  of  her  diet;  give  her 
a  little  of  the  broth  when  it  is  prepared,  and  keep  her 
mind  as  calm  as  possible." 

After  the  door  was  closed,  Ellen  said  — 

"Dear  mother,  God  has  given  us  more  than  our  daily 
bread;  and  see,  how  cheerful  our  room  looks!  If  you 
were  well  we  should  be  quite  happy.  Are  you  not  better, 
dear  mother !" 

"  Yes,  my  Ellen,  I  believe  I  am.  I  feel  calm  and  quiet 
now ;  and  but  for  my  dear  children,  I  could  die  peaceful 
and  happy.     I  hope  for  rest  beyond  the  grave." 

She  slept — peaceful  as  the  infant  on  its  mother's  bosom. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Lawrence. 

"Emily,"  said  he  to  his  wife  upon  entering,  "what 
young  girl  was  that  who  was  waiting  in  the  cold  hall,  to 
speak  with  you  this  morning?" 

"  Oh  !  a  girl  who  did  some  sewing  for  me  last  summer. 
She  is  very  troublesome,  calling  here  so  frequently,  and 
for  such  a  little  sum  too." 

"  Why  not  pay  at  once,  when  anything  is  due,  and  re- 
move the  necessity  of  being  troublesome." 


220 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


"  I  hardly  know,  myself.     I  believe  it  was  not  conve- 
nient at  first." 

"  How  much  did  you  owe  her?" 

"  Only  twenty  shillings.     She  embroidered  a  cape  for 


me." 


"  Was  not  the  work  worth  more  ?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  anxious  for  employment,  and  ofifered  to 
do  it  at  half  price." 

"  To  say  nothing  of  taking  advantage  of  her  necessity, 
did  it  never  occur  to  your  mind  that  you  were  doing  great 
injustice  by  withholding  her  pay  so  long  ?  What  if  a 
sick  mother  and  little  sister  were  dependent  upon  her  ex- 
ertions, and  the  three  were  almost  perishing  from  want  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  could  not  be  the  case,  or  she  would  have 
told  me ;  besides,  you  know  there  is  provision  made  for 
the  poor.  They  need  not  suffer.  But  I  will  pay  her  the 
next  time  she  calls." 

"  I  have  done  that  already  upon  her  representation  of 
her  mother's  illness.  And  now,  Emily,  will  you  put  on 
your  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  walk  out  with  me  a  short  dis- 
tance ?  The  air  is  fine,  and  our  new  friend,  Tracy,  will 
accompany  us.  lie  is  very  sad,  you  perceive,  having  as 
yet  had  no  tidings  of  his  family.  To-morrow  he  leaves 
for  Philadelphia,  to  continue  his  almost  hopeless  search." 

The  invitation  accepted,  the  three  were  soon  going  down 
Beekman  street  to  Broadway,  thence  to  Canal. 

"  What  a  bright  and  beautiful  day,  though  cold  !  The 
clouds  have  passed  away,  and  the  bright  snow  dazzles  the 
eyes.  But  where  are  we  going  ?  not  down  those  steps, 
surely  ?" 

"  Follow  me,"  said  her  husband  ;  and  tapping  lightly 
at  the  door  was  admitted. 

"  She  still   sleeps,"   said  Lucy  ;  and   slu'  placed  some 


WINTER     RECOLLECTIONS.  221 

chairs,  which  had  been  sent  her  a  siiort  time  before  by  an 
unknown  friend.  A  table  had  also  been  added  to  their 
scanty  furniture;  and  a  well-filled  basket  of  delicate  pro- 
visions placed  there  by  some  benevolent  hand. 

"Lucy!"  said  Mrs.  L.  "Is  it  possible!"  and  whis- 
pered, "Is  your  mother  ill?" 

"She  is  very,  very  sick  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  thus  ?" 

"She  has  been  failing  since  last  summer,  but  only  a 
few  days  so  poorly." 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this,  Lucy  ?  I  might 
have  been  of  great  service  to  her.  But  I  trust  it  is  not 
yet  too  late." 

"  Is  this  heaven,  dear  William  ?"  murmured  the  sleep- 
ing invalid. 

The  stranger  started,  and  for  the  first  time  looked  upon 
that  pale,  attenuated  face.  A  stilled  groan  escaped  him 
as  he  gently  placed  his  chair  beside  the  bed,  and  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  her. 

A  few  minutes  of  silence,  and  she  awoke. 

"Are  you  here,  Lucy  ?  I  have  had  a  delicious  dream. 
Why  did  I  wake  so  soon  ?  I  was  exhausted  with  fatigue 
and  alone — all  alone — and  your  dear,  lost  father  came, 
and  called  me  his  own  Marion.  He  embraced  me,  and  car- 
ried me  in  his  arms  to  a  bower  of  roses  we  had  reared  to- 
gether in  happier  days.  My  children  were  sporting  round 
me  ;  and  looking  up  among  the  flowers,  I  saw  bright  faces 
gazing  upon  us.  My  father  and  my  mother  M'ere  of  the 
number;  they  smiled,  and  said,  'Happy,  happy  group !' 
And  a  loud,  sweet  strain  of  heavenly  music  awoke  me  !" 

"  My  own  Marion !"  said  the  stranger ;  and  Tracy 
pressed  the  cheek  of  his  wife,  after  an  absence  of  nine 
years.     "  Thank  God  for  his  mercies !     I  have  found  my 


222  THEMOSS-ROSE. 

loved  ones.  Lucy  !  Ellen  !  come  to  a  father's  aiins  ! 
Where  is  Edward  ?" 

The  bright  boy  was  descending  the  steps  to  inquire 
about  his  mother,  when  he  soon  felt  himself  folded  to  a 
proud  father's  bosom. 

***** 

Mrs.  L returned  home  a  wiser  woman,  and  by  a 

life  of  active  benevolence  sought  to  retrieve  the  follies  of 
the  past.  Her  errors  had  been  more  of  the  head  than  of 
the  heart ;  and  this  visible  change  endeared  her  still  more 
to  the  best  of  husbands.  They  seemed  to  see  the  hand  of 
Providence  in  all  things,  and  blessed  the  hour  when  busi- 
ness brought  William  Tracy  to  their  house,  a  stranger ; 
where,  notwithstanding  their  ignorance  of  even  the  name 
of  the  sewing  girl,  they  had  been  instrumental  in  restoring 
him  to  the  bosom  of  his  family,  and  laid  the  basis  of  en- 
during friendship. 

*  *  *  *  * 

Spring  came  with  its  mild  breath  and  early  flowers.  Its 
hallowed  influence,  with  the  aid  of  joy  and  plenty,  brought 
the  glow  of  returning  health  to  the  clieek  of  Mrs.  Tracy. 
The  attentions  of  a  devoted  husband — his  description  of 
events  in  India ;  of  his  hair-breadth  escape  from  a  watery 
grave ;  of  his  arrival  from  sea  at  Mr.  L 's  so  oppor- 
tunely, in  search  of  his  family — left  no  time  for  weary 
hours.  The  smiles  and  caresses  of  their  children,  growing 
up  in  the  path  of  virtue,  and  possessing  those  higli 
Christian  principles  which  were  tlie  rule  of  action  with 
their  parents,  left  no  earthly  wish  unsatisfied  ;  and  if  the 
spirits  of  the  departed  are  permitted  to  hover  round  the 
loved  of  earth,  we  may  well  supjiose  those  bright  faces 
beam  among  the  flowers,  exclaiming,  "Happy,  happy 
group!" 


FRAGMENT— THE     OFFERING 


BY      MBS.     E.     P.      H. 


They  journeyed  on, 
The  fair  young  boy  beside  his  aged  sire  ; 
Perchance  he  turned  aside  to  quench  his  thirst 
At  tlie  bright  sparkling  rill,  or  stooped  to  pick 
The  sweet  wild-flowers  that  grew  upon  its  bank  ; 
Perchance  a  butterfly,  with  gilded  wings. 
Might  cross  his  path,  and  bid  him  catch  the  prize  ! 

Sweet  innocent !  methinks  e'en  now  I  see  thee, 
With  noble  brow,  like  my  own  sainted  boy  ; 
Such  silken,  clustering  curls  as  angels  wear, 
Just  parted  by  a  tender  mother's  hand. 
To  press  aftection's  kiss  more  surely  there. 
Go  on — thy  God  is  with  thee  ! 

Pensive  still. 
But  with  a  holy  calm  within  his  breast. 
The  "  Father  of  the  Faithful"  wends  his  way 
Beside  the  "Child  of  Promise."     Dearer  far 
Than  life,  that  artless  one  ;  the  pride  and  joy 
And  comfort  of  his  acre :  but  faith  was  strono; 
In  God.     A  spirit- wing  fanned  his  pale  brow 
And  cleared  all  doubt  away,  strength 'ning  his  heart. 

Thrice  had  the  morning  sun  gilded  the  plains. 
And  shed  his  cheering  beams  on  hill  and  vale, 
Since  they  had  left  the  hallowed  home  of  love, 


224 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

When,  lo!  Moriah  bursts  upon  their  sight — 

The  place  of  sacrifice  !     Alone  they  went, 

The  father  and  the  son,  upon  the  mount, 

Builded  the  altar  there,  and  placed  the  wood. 

"  Father  !  all  now  is  readj',  but  the  lamb  ! 

Where  is  the  lamb,  my  father,  for  the  offering  ?" 

What  pangs  with  lightning  speed  oppressed  that  heart! 

"  My  son,  God  will  provide  himself  a  lamb  !" 

Soon  bound  upon  the  wood  was  that  fair  boy. 

A  moment  more,  and  the  uplifted  knife 

Had  drunk  the  life-blood  of  the  young  and  pure 

And  sent  his  soul  on  ancjel  winsfs  to  heaven. 

When  lo  !  a  voice — "  Stay,  Abraham,  stay  thy  hand  ! 

The  fear  of  God  is  with  thee ;  thou  hast  not 

Withheld  thy  son,  tliinc  only  son,  from  me !" 

God  did  provide  a  lamb  for  a  burnt-otTering  ! 
Type  of  the  Lamb  who  died  to  save  mankind  ; 
And  gave  such  blessing  as  ne'er  man  received, 
To  that  fond,  faithful  parent ;  for  in  him 
Should  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  be  blest ! 

%  *  -A  *  * 

Glowed  not  their  hearts  with  gratitude  to  Heaven, 
And  holy  love,  while  journeying  homeward 
From  Jehovah-jireh  ?     And  who  may  tell 
The  holy,  sacred  joy  that  wrapt  each  soul. 
As  to  her  breast  the  mother  clasped  her  boy, 
And  with  his  father  knelt  in  thanks  to  God  ! 


A  VISIT  TO  MOUNT  HOPE, 

IN    THE    CITY    OF    ROCHESTER,   NEWYOKK. 
BY     MISS      0.      E.     EGBERTS. 


I  HAVE  visited  many  of  •  the  large  cities  of  our  extensive 
Union,  but  never  was  more  agreeably  surprised  than  when 
I  first  saw  the  beautiful  city  of  Rochester,  in  the  State  of 
New  York.  Perhaps  it  was  because  I  had  never  heard 
its  beauties  descanted  upon,  though  I  had  often  listened 
ij  to  accounts  of  its  rapid  growth  and  fast  increasing  popu- 
!|  lation ;  but  of  its  local  charms  I  had  heard  but  little, 
|l  though  I  fancy  they  are  rarely  equalled. 
J!  But  I  do  not  mean  here  to  enlarge  upon  the  Genesee 
''  River,  which  threads  its  way  amid  as  beautiful  a  landscape 
ji  as  the  eye  ever  rested  upon — nor  those  falls,  of  which  so 
:i  much  has  been  written,  whose  sheets  of  snow-white  foam 
ii  descend  in  a  cataract  of  nearly  a  hundred  feet — nor  of  the 

j!  •' 

jl  mill-seats,  each  with  its  own  stream  of  rushuig  water — nor 
!|  of  the  not  less  picturesque  lower  falls,  which,  if  seen  from 
!|  that  most  enchanting  of  all  roads,  "  Buel's  Avenue,"  look 
■'  like  hills  of  moving  snow  amid  the  verdant  scene — the 
ii  River  Genesee,  like  liquid  crystal,  runs  along  on  one  side  of 
!'  you,  and  high  walls  of  rock  upon  the  ot  er  side,  in  some 
||  parts  covered  with  ric'i  verdure,  and  luxuriant  wild  flow- 
!i  ers,  and  again  bare  and  dark,  with  water  trickling  down 
its  sides,  and  softening  the  hard  stone,  and  crumbling  it 
11 


226  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

away — the  steep  green  banks  of  the  opposite  shore,  with 
their  long  descents  of  rude  steps — the  pleasant-looking 
cottages,  (what  would  not  look  pleasant  from  such  a  spot !) 
no,  beautiful  as  all  this  may  be,  I  cannot  now  enlarge  upon 
it ;  but  it  is  of  Mount  Hope,  the  city  of  the  dead,  of  which 
I  would  write. 

What  an  appropriate  name  for  a  cemetery  !  It  speaks 
of  immortality,  rather  than  mortality.  How  cheering  the 
sound  to  bereaved  Christians  Avho  lay  some  beloved  friend 
beneath  the  sod,  in  the  full  assurance  she  will  rise  again — 
"  We  have  laid  her  in  Mount  Hope  !"  Oh,  should  not  all 
our  grave-vards,  instead  of  being  dull  and  gloomy  recep- 
tacles of  the  dead,  be  made  pleasant  gardens,  and  have 
"  Mount  Hope"  inscribed  over  the  gates  of  these  silent 
cities !  With  how  much  less  of  reluctance  should  we  en- 
ter these  hallowed  precincts ;  and  yet  of  how  compara- 
tively late  date  has  been  the  change !  A  few  years  since 
where  was  pleabant  Mount  Auburn — the  Greenwood  Cem- 
etery— Mount  Hope  ? 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon,  early  in  July,  as  our  party 
drove  through  the  rural  city  of  Rochester,  to  visit  Mount 
Hope.  It  is  a  pleasant  drive — the  children  were  delighted 
with  all  they  saw.  I  always  enjoy  the  society  of  children 
upon  a  journey,  their  expressions  of  delight  are  so  from 
the  heart — nature  comes  to  them  so  pleasantly,  as  it  came 
to  myself  lang-syne,  and  I  fancy  it  is  myself  again,  full  of 
hope  and  youth.  We  noticed  one  beauliful  cottage  as  we 
passed — beautiful  moie  from  its  home  among  trees,  and 
fine  shrubs,  and  rare  exotics  about  the  pretty  piazza,  and 
vines  whose  tendrils  twined  gracefully  round  the  white 
pillars. 

"  Those  plants  are  the  deliglil  ami  care  of  a  little  inva- 
lid," said  my  friend  ;   "  she  devotes  her  time  and  attention 


A    VISIT     TO     MOUNT     HOPE.  227 

to  them  constantly  when  she  is  able  to  be  round  ;  she  has 
a  room  in  the  cottage  devoted  to  them,  and  very  pleasant 
companions  does  she  find  them,  when  stretched  upon  her 
couch  of  suffering.  She  prides  herself  upon  her  roses, 
which  she  rears  in  great  health  and  beauty,  and  her.  chief 
delight  is  in  transplanting  these  children  of  her  love  to 
Mount  Hope  ;  and  one  of  the  sweetest  spots  in  that  gar- 
den of  the  dead,  is  where  her  father  and  little  brothers 
sleep.  She  has  bordei'ed  a  grave  for  herself  and  mother ; 
and  says  when  God  sees  fit  to  call  her  soul  to  himself,  her 
poor  body,  which  has  been  such  a  painful  load  in  life,  will 
have  a  pleasant  nook  among  roses  in  the  grave-yard." 
Alas  !  like  herself,  how  much  of  watchfulness  and  care  do  • 
these  sweet  plants  need  !  The  sunlight  of  love  must  cheer 
them  alike,  and  the  kindly  dews  of  afi"ection  refresh  them  ; 
at  last  they  die,  but  the  plants  "  drop  without  decrepitude 
and  pain  into  the  tomb,"  while  her  feeble  body  wears  it- 
self away  in  suffering — and  again  they  will  both  "  break 
forth  in  glory." 

But  I  am  digressing — here  we  are  at  Mount  Hope.  In- 
deed it  is  a  most  lovely  spot — nature  in  her  own  wild  state, 
and  art  with  all  her  refinements.  The  pretty  pond  of  clear, 
bright  water,  "  like  a  set  gem,"  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  re- 
flects the  blue  sky  and  green  borders  with  a  peculiar  clear- 
ness; the  winding  road  leads  up  the  hill,  and  into  dells  ; 
green  bordered  lots  with  roses  planted  round  them,  which 
shed  their  rich  perfume  over  pleasant  graves — deep  dells 
where  nature,  with  her  own  hand,  has  planted  trees,  and 
low  brush,  and  wild  flowers — rustic  steps  leading  down 
into  these  shady  nooks,  where  stand,  in  quiet  places,  sim- 
ple white  grave-stones,  as  if  guarding  the  peaceful  slum- 
berers. 

But  the  most  lovely  part  of  the  ground,  perhaps,  is  a 


228 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


deep  hollow,  whether  natural  or  artificial  I  do  not  know, 
but  a  series  of  labyrinthine  walks  leacf  to  the  small  circu- 
lar grass-plat  at  the  bottom,  bordered  with  flowers;  look- 
ing up  from  this  spot,  the  grave-stones  upon  the  terraces, 
one  alcove  another,  look  like  sentinels  holding  watch  over 
priceless  treasures.  From  the  summit  of  Mount  Hope, 
Lake  Ontario  is  seen  stretching  afar  ofi",  though  it  is  forty 
miles  distant  from  Rochester.  From  the  observatory  in 
this  point  a  most  rich  and  highly  diversified  prospect  is  to 
be  seen. 

We  wandered  about  this  beautiful  place  for  hours — 
children  full  of  life  and  health  stooping  to  read  the  names 
pn  little  grave-stones,  or  spelling  from  some  tall  monument 
letters  that  they  could  scarcely  decipher ;  with  so  vague 
and  indistinct  an  idea  of  the  change  that  cometh  upon  all. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Alount  Hope  who  would  not  be 
willing  to  rest  at  last  within  thy  pleasant  borders  ?  The 
birds  here  sing  unharmed  in  their  native  trees,  and  the 
little  squirrel  bounds  unmolested  over  the  low  graves — 
here  the  wild  flowers  live  their  life  of  beauty  and  fade 
away — the  trees  cast  their  many-colored  leaves  upon  thy 
bosom,  and  decorate  themselves  again  in  the  sweet  spring- 
time with  their  accustomed  garments — the  snow  of  winter, 
like  a  silvery  mantle,  covers  thee — the  soft  winds  blow  over 
thee.  Oh,  may  we  hope  that  all  who  rest  within  thy  quiet 
borders,  may  rise  in  spotless  and  glorified  bodies  to  join 
the  host  of  the  redeemed  in  heaven  ! 

A  Sabbath-like  stillness  reigns  around — the  children  have 
strayed  fiom  our  side;  and  as  they  approacli,  one  says  in 
a  low  sad  tone  to  the  other,  "  Wliy,  Mary  !  1  did  not 
know  your  mother  had  so  many  dead  children  !"  "  Not 
dead  children,  little  Charles;  all  lUuny  unto  God."  They 
all  lived  long  enough  to  hear  of  a  Saviour's  dying  love ;  and 


A    VISIT    TO     MOUNT   'HOPE.  229 

each  little  sleeper  knew  the  evil  of  sin,  and  the  need  of  a 
pardon.  These  dear  ones  (the  oldest  the  grave-stone  tells 
you  was  but  ten  years  old)  have  all  died  trusting  in  a 
Saviour's  mercy,  and  I  trust  are  now  among  those  who 
follow  the  Lamb  whithersoever  he  goeth.  "Oh,  I  often 
think,"  she  continued,  "  how  fearful  must  be  the  anguish 
of  a  parent  who  lays  an  unrepentant  child  within  the 
grave!" 

Long  and  deeply  did  I  muse  upon  the  lesson.  Would 
I  be  happier  if  I  laid  an  unrepentant  child  in  Mount  Hope, 
than  if  he  slept  in  the  dreary  ocean  bed  ?  Could  I  hope 
his  body  would  rise  a  glorified  and  spiritual  body  at  the 
last  day  ?  Would  the  beauty  of  the  spot,  the  blooming 
flowers,  the  bird's  song,  the  white  stone,  take  aught 
from  the  sting  of  death  ?  Would  it  not  seem  sweeter  to 
bury  a  believing  and  Christian  friend  in  the  dreariest  spot 
compared  to  it  ?  But  the  beauty  of  such  spots  as  Mount 
Hope  has  a  soothing,  and  I  trust  a  beneficial  effect  vipon 
the  heart — the  grave  itself  is  not  so  clad  in  terrors — the 
tomb,  the  shroud,  the  dark  abode  are  forgotten,  among 
sunny  nooks  and  bright  flowers,  and  how  imperceptibly  a 
peace  is  diffused  over  the  heart !  We  love  to  come  and 
watch  about  our  treasure,  whose  earthly  form  sleeps  in  a 
garden  of  roses  ;  and  we  are  led  onward  and  upward  to 
contemplate  the  glorious  kingdom  where  those  who  sleep 
in  Christ,  live  again  in  giorj. 

"  We  shall  not  all  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed, 
(says  St.  Paul ;)  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
at  the  last  trump,  the  dead  shall  be  raised  incorruptible, 
and  we  shall  be  changed."  God  grant  that  at  the  last 
great  day  we  "  may  all  come  unto  Mount  Sion,  and  unto 
the  city  of  the  living  God,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  and 
to  an  innumerable  company  of  angels,  and  to  the  general 


•230 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


assembly  and  church  of  the  first-born,  which  are  "written 
in  heaven,  and  to  God,  the  judge  of  all ;  and  the  spirits 
of  just  men  made  perfect,  and  to  Jesus,  the  mediator  of 
the  new  covenant."  If  we  hope  to  come  unto  such  an 
inheritance,  "let  us  pray  for  grace,  whereby  we  may 
serve  God  acceptably,  in  reverence  and  godly  fear." 


BY 


MY    BIRD. 


FANNY   FORESTER,    (mRS.    E.    C.    JUDSON.) 


Ere  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 
A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 

And  folded  all  so  lovingly, 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge, 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies  ; 

Two  rose-leaves  with  a  silken  fringe. 
Shut  softly  o'er  her  starry  eyes. 

There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird. 

Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest ; 

Oh,  God  !  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred. 
Whose  waters  never  more  shall  rest. 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing. 
This  seeming  visitant  from  heaven. 

This  bird  with  an  immortal  wing, 
To  me,  to  me.  Thy  hand  has  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke, 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine 

This  life  that  I  have  dared  invoke, 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  Thine. 


232 


,. 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room, 
I  tremble  with  delicious  fear — 

The  future  with  its  light  and  gloom. 
Time  and  eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  turn  arise ; 

Hear,  oh,  my  soul,  our  earnest  prayer ! 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel-plumage  there. 


FATAL  LOVE, 


FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   BOEING, 


At  a  village  in  France,  two  strangers  were  driven  by  a 
storm  to  seek  shelter  in  the  house  of  a  huntsman  named 
Martin.  Here  the  flame  of  an  unequal  love  was  suddenly 
lighted  up  between  the  fair  Aloyse  and  one  of  the  strangers, 
of  whose  dignity  the  country  maiden  was  entirely  ignorant. 
She  accidentally  discovered  that  the  object  of  her  heart's 
adoration  was  threatened  with  serious  dangrer,  and  that 
his  apparent  friend.  Colonel  Montejo  was  his  concealed 
enemy.  To  divert  his  guests  the  huntsman  gave  a  rural 
fete.  Madame  Gageot,  his  sister,  went  to  Nevers,  to  tell 
all  her  acquaintances  about  the  agreeable  strangers,  and 
to  invite  some  of  Aloyse's  friends  to  pass  the  evening  with 
them,  that  she  might  show  her  young  favorite  with  what 
tact  she  managed  these  matters.  The  provincial  girls, 
seated  under  some  spreading  trees,  resembled  a  wreath  of 
blooming  flowers,  which  exhibited  every  pale  and  deeper 
tint  of  spring  and  summer's  blossoms.  Madame  Gageot 
presided  at  a  large  table  covered  with  fruits  and  confec- 
tions. Montejo,  under  pretense  of  sudden  indisposition, 
retired  precipitately  into  the  house.  His  companion,  who, 
by  his  gayety  and  engaging  manners,  had  quickly  wound 
himself  into  the  hearts  of  the  youthful  party,  hastily  fol- 
lowed him,  but  almost  as  quickly  returned,  bearing  a  small 
casket.  He  opened  it,  and,  after  a  short  speech,  he  pre- 
sented a  gift  to  each  of  the  blushing  girls,  saying,  as  he 
passed  from  one  to  the  other,  it  was  a  remembrancer  of 
11* 


234  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

that  happy  evcnhig.  He  placed  a  sparkling  gem  in  the 
hair  of  one,  put  a  brilliant  ring  upon  the  finger  of  another, 
and  fastened  a  gold  comb  in  the  auburn  ringlets  of  a  third  ; 
and  before  they  had  time  to  recover  from  their  surpiise, 
or  reject  his  offered  gifts,  they  sparkled  -with  the  jewels 
with  which  he  had  so  profusely  ornamented  them  ;  and 
the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  which  had  hitherto  in  this 
happy  spot  shone  only  upon  flowers,  now  fell  upon  these 
brilliant  gems,  and  added  a  dazzling  lustre  to  the  wreath. 
Struck  -with  astonishment,  Madame  Gageot  and  Aloyse 
gazed  upon  the  scene.  Madame,  who  was  deeply  read  in 
fairy  lore,  believed  that  she  beheld  some  enchanter  before 
her.  Aloyse  grew  pale  with  a  variety  of  sensations,  as 
she  looked  upon  the  munificent  stranger.  Who  could  this 
youth  be,  who,  with  such  laughing  and  careless  indill'er- 
ence,  threw  from  him  what  appeared  to  her  to  be  im- 
measurable riches  ?  She  did  not  wish  to  be  treated  in  the 
same  manner  as  her  companions  had  been.  He  passed 
by  her  with  his  sparkling  gifts  ;  and,  when  he  had  gone  the 
round  of  the  circle,  he  set  the  casket  upon  the  ground, 
bent  down  to  a  bed  of  flowers,  took  from  it  a  violet,  and 
gave  it  to  the  gratified  Aloyse.  "  I  well  knew,"  he 
whispered,  "  that  I  dared  not  so  approach  you,  Aloyse. 
Flowers  only  are  fit  for  flowers ;  the  daughter  of  nature 
loves  nature  alone.  Ah  !  Aloyse,  this  violet  will  be  happy, 
even  in  withering  upon  your  bosom;  but 'longer,  much 
longer  than  its  short  existence  may  my  remembrance 
dwell  in  your  heart !"  Aloyse  felt  her  heart  sink  within 
her  ;  she  received  the  flower  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
glanced  anxiously  around,  apprehending  that  he  might 
have  been  overheard ;  but  her  companions  were  too 
deeply  engaged  to  attend  to  her.  Tliey  were  all  busily 
occupied    in  comparing    their  jewels,  laughing,   jesting ; 


FATAL     LOVE.  235 

and  were  so  superlatively  happy,  that  they  could  scarcely 
wait  with  composure  for  the  appointed  hour  of  separating, 
so  impatient  were  they  to  return  home  to  exhibit  their 
gifts,  and  astonish  their  parents  with  the  extraordinary 
tale.  At  length  the  hour  of  departure  arrived,  and  they 
bade  a  grateful  good  night  to  their  entertainers  and  the 
generous  stranger ;  and  with  light  steps  they  hurried 
home,  holding  fast  their  precious  gems. 

This  incident  made  a  great  noise  in  the  village.  The 
girls  were  closely  questioned  by  their  parents,  and  they 
spoke  so  much  of  the  stranger,  that  people  did  not  know 
what  to  think  of  the  matter.  They  were  examined  again 
and  again,  and  they  only  repeated  that  they  had  received 
costly  presents  from  a  singularly  handsome  young  man, 
but  that  his  companion  had  scarcely  remained  long  enough 
to  throw  a  glance  upon  them.  The  gems  were  examined 
by  a  lapidary,  and  declared  to  be  of  great  value  ;  and,  as 
there  were  amongst  the  girls'  parents  some  of  the  magis- 
trates, and  even  the  mayor  himself,  the  interesting  enigma 
quickly  began  to  take  a  somewhat  different  character. 

Aloyse  had,  for  some  time  past,  been  in  the  habit  of 
daily  visiting  a  poor  old  woman,  who  would  scarcely  have 
been  able  to  support  a  feeble  and  suffering  existence,  had 
she  not  been  supported  and  consoled  by  Aloyse's  tender 
and  benevolent  cares.  She  devotedly  loved  her  young 
benefactress,  and  her  little  cottage  always  seemed  to  be 
lighted  up  when  Aloyse  made  her  appearance  in  it,  for 
she  was  like  a  ministeiing  angel  to  her.  The  morning 
after  the  little  festival,  Aloyse  set  out  to  visit,  as  usual, 
her  poor  old  friend,  simply  clad,  and  with  her  half- 
withered  violet  in  her  bosom.  When  she  entered,  Mar- 
garet fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  look  of  so  much 
anxiety,  that  she  tenderly  inquired  if  she  wished  for  any- 


236  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

thing.  "Nothing,  my  sweet  child,"  she  replied,  "while 
you  are  with  me.  I  desire  only  a  crown  of  glory  to  deck 
thy  pure  brow.  What  now  disquiets  me  is  a  dream  I 
have  had,  in  which  you  bore  a  part.  I  thought  you  were 
threatened  by  some  danger  to  which  I  could  give  no 
name.  You  bent  down  to  seize  a  sparkling  jewel  which 
was  rolling  toward  an  abyss ;  you  grasped  it,  and  as  you 
pressed  it  to  your  bosom,  it  pierced  you  to  the  heart.  I 
saw  you  afterwards  in  a  magnificent  chamber,  where  every- 
thing shone  with  gold,  but  the  gold  cast  a  pale,  ghastly 
shade  upon  your  cheek ;  and  when  I  observed  you  more 
closely,  your  bright  and  lovely  color  was  no  longer  there 
— your  eyes  were  closed — you  belonged  no  more  to  the 
livinsf."  Aloyse  shuddered  at  these  words;  and  thoughts 
of  the  jewels  of  the  preceding  day  sank  deeply  into  her 
heart.  She  felt  the  wound ;  but  her  grief  was  mingled 
with  so  much  sweetness,  that  she  could  not  know  it  to  be 
a  consuming  poison. 

Montejo  was  employed  by  Cardinal  Mazarine  and  the 
Jesuits  to  remove  the  young  prince,   in  order  to  pave  the 
way  to  the  throne  of  Spain  for  another  candidate  ;  and  it 
was  on  a  journey  to  Toulon  that  these  adventures  ensued. 
At  this  time  the  king  of  Spain  died,  and   the  ambassadors 
were  on  their  way  to  Paris  with  his  will  and  the  Spanish 
crown,  to  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  the  new  monarch.    They 
were  to  pass  by  the  residence  of  Martin  ;  and  Montejo 
now  began  to  fear  that  his  companion — who  was  Philip  of 
Anjou — would  not  fall  into   the  snares  contrived  for  his 
ruin.     On  her  way   home  from  her  charitable  visit,  she 
overheard   the  paiticulars  of  the  atrocious  scheme.     She 
remained  for  an  hour  immovable,  and  lost  in  deep  thought. 
Now  she  clearly  felt  tliat  an  invincible  barrier   lay  on  lier 
path,  and  that  a  deep  and  impassable  gulf  separated  her 


FATAL     LOVE.  237 

from  happiness.  She  was  now  awakened  to  all  the  depth 
of  her  love ;  and  an  inexpressible  anguish  mingled  itself 
with  her  tenderness,  for  it  was  evident  that  some  horrible 
fate  was  impending  over  her  lover.  At  this  fearful 
thought  she  sprang  from  the  ground,  and,  while  she 
rapidly  pursued  her  way  homewards,  endeavored  to  think 
what  it  was  her  duty  to  do.  "  Away,"  she  thought,  "  he 
must  not  go  ;  I  must  hnd  out*some  way  of  detaining  him  ; 
he  is  safe  with  us."  She  desired  the  mayor  to  prevent  the 
strangers  from  escaping.  "  I  accuse  them,"  she  said,  "of 
having  stolen  those  jewels."  A  thunderbolt  could  not 
have  occasioned  greater  astonishment  and  consternation 
than  these  words.  She  repeated  the  accusation  in  a 
firmer  tone.  Montejo  threw  upon  her  a  look  of  the  deep- 
est mahgnity,  while  Philip  gazed  at  her  in  the  utmost  sur- 
prise. Martin  dropped  the  glass  of  water  which  he  was 
about  to  raise  to  his  lips,  and  Madame  Gageot  surveyed 
her  from  head  to  foot  with  angry  eyes.  Upon  this 
charge  they  were  stopped.  She  watched  Philip  during 
the  night  like  a  guardian  angel ;  and  Montejo,  enraged 
at  her  interposition,  wounded  her  with  his  dagger,  and 
disappeared.  Philip  scarcely  observed  the  villain's  flight, 
for  all  his  attention  was  fixed  upon  the  beautiful,  bleeding- 
girl  at  his  feet.  He  raised  her  up,  and  held  her  in  his 
ai-ms ;  then  placed  her  upon  a  seat,  uncovei-ed  her 
shoulder,  tore  a  handkerchief  in  two,  and  stanched  the 
blood.  He  bent  over  her,  endeavored  to  revive  her,  part- 
ed her  ringlets  from  her  pale  brow,  and  supported  her 
sinking  head.  For  an  hour  she  thus  lay  in  silent  bliss, 
her  cheek  resting  upon  that  gentle,  princely  hand.  "  Oh, 
sir  !"  she  murmured  in  a  soft,  low  voice,  "  why  was  I  not 
wounded  to  death  ?  why  am  I  not  permitted  to  make  thee 
the  only  sacrifice  that  was  in  ray  power?"     He  entreated 


238  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

her  to  be  calm,  and  they  uow  came  to  mutual  explana- 
tions. She  related  everything  she  had  heard  in  the 
forest ;  and  the  more  he  heard,  the  more  indignant  he  be- 
came. 

"  Yes  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  indeed  believe  that  he  would 
have  betrayed  me.  He  obtained  ray  friendship  and  con- 
fidence only  to  lead  me  more  certainly  to  destruction. 
Austria,  or  perhaps  Spain  itself,  has  sent  him  to  me." 

As  the  envoys  from  Spain  were  hourly  expected  in  this 
part  of  France,  Philip  resolved  to  make  himself  known  to 
them,  and  accompany  them  to  Paris.  With  faltering 
steps  Aloyse  now  approached  the  door  of  his  apartment. 
She  paused  ;  she  stretched  out  lier  arms  toward  liim. 
"  Philip  !"  said  her  pale  trembling  lips — "  Philip  !  once 
only  in  this  life — we  meet  no  more — once  only — ."  She 
could  not  finish,  but  he  understood  her.  He  pressed  her 
ardently  to  his  bosom  ;  for  one  short  moment  she  rested 
in  his  embrace,  then  tore  herself  away,  rushed  down  the 
steps,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  couch. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  ambassadors,  Philip  prepared  to 
depart  with  them.  While  they  were  occupied  in  dispatch- 
ing expresses  to  Madi  id  and  elsewhere,  he  retired  into  the 
thicket,  and  motioned  to  Martin  and  Aloyse  to  follow  him. 
He  took  a  kind  farewell  of  the  former,  and  begged  him  to 
come  and  see  him  in  Paris.  "  But  what  shall  I  say  to 
thee  ?"  continued  he,  turning  to  Aloyse,  "  thou  gentle, 
unhappy  one  !  Shall  I  ever  repay  thee  thy  sacrifice  and 
thy  tears  ?  Oh,  may  thy  heart  soon  regain  its  tran- 
quillity, for  we  part  forever  in  this  woild  !"  She  replied 
not,  but,  with  deep  sobs,  pressed  his  hand  to  her  heart. 
He  embraced  her  once  more,  and  laying  her  on  her  fa- 
ther's breast,  rushed  from  the  spot.  After  his  departure 
she  wept  bitterly.     Martin  bent  tenderly  over  her,  and 


FATAL     LOVE.  239 

softly  named  Philip.  "  Oh,  my  father  !"  she  vehemently 
exclaimed — "  I  own  my  affection  for  him :  I  shall  love 
him  forever  ;  he  has  taken  my  life  with  him.  Yet  be  not 
uneasy,  dear  father;  I  shall  be  composed.  Fulfil  your 
promise,  and  let  us  set  out  for  Paris  instantly." 

Louis  had  already  accepted  for  his  grandson  the  crown 
of  Spain,  and  the  ambassadors  were  appointed  to  a  solemn 
audience.  The  French  nobles  were  assembled.  A  num- 
ber of  men  of  rank  from  the  young  Bourbon's  different 
dominions,  even  from  distant  America,  arranged  them- 
selves round  Louis's  still  empty  throne.  The  ladies  of 
the  court  were  also  present,  and  at  their  head  was  the. 
admired,  the  envied  Madame  de  Maintenon.  In  the  back- 
ground were  many  persons  of  the  middle  rank,  spectators 
of  this  magnificent  scene,  and  amongst  these  were  Ma- 
dame Gageot  and  Aloyse.  The  door  of  the  royal  cabinet 
was  now  flung  open,  and  Louis  stepped  proudly  forth, 
leading  his  grandson  by  the  hand, .  with  the  air  and 
majesty  of  the  master  of  the  world.  Beautiful  as  the  son 
of  a  god,  led  by  the  hand  of  Jupiter,  walked  Philip  by  his 
side.  He  was  attired  in  the  Spanish  costume,  sparkling 
with  jewels.  The  royal  mantle  flowed  gracefully  from 
his  shoulder,  the  sword  of  Castile  glittered  at  his  side,  and 
the  feathers  of  Arras^on  waved  from  the  diadem  that  bound 
his  youthful  brow.  "Spaniards,  behold  your  king!" 
said  Louis,  as  he  looked  with  paternal  pride  upon  his 
grandson,  whom  he  presented  to  them.  The  ceremony 
was  nearly  concluded,  when  Philip's  eye  fell  upon  a  pale, 
dying  countenance,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  risen  from  the 
dead  to  gaze  upon  him.  The  color  suddenly  fled  from 
his  cheek ;  for  it  was  Aloyse's  sweet,  mournful  glance 
he  had  encountered,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
conceal  his   emotions.      His   hand   trembled  in   that  of 


240  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Louis,  who  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Dost  thou  tremble,  king 
of  Spain  ?" 

Philip  departed  for  Spain;  and  about  a  year  after- 
wards Aloyse  went  one  evening,  as  usual,  to  visit  old 
Margaret.  "My  child,"  said  she,  as  she  looked  upon  the 
pale,  death-like  countenance  of  her  forlorn  young  friend, 
"  have  I  not  been  right  with  my  dream  ?  Oh,  that  you 
had  never  known  this  death-bringing  jewel!" 

"  Good  mother,"  replied  Aloyse,  "  do  not  thus  grieve 
over  me;  I  am  not  unhappy." 

But  Margaret  remarked  such  an  extraordinary  weakness 
1  about  her,  that  she  determined,  although  against  her  wishes, 
to  accompany  her  on  herway  home.  When  they  came  to  the 
forest,  Aloyse  felt  herself  overpowered  by  great  weakness 
and   indisposition,  about  the  place   where  she  had  over- 
heard Montejo's  treachery.     "  It  was  here,"  said  she,  in 
a  low,  stifled  voice  ;  "I  recollect  a  particular  tree  ;  it  lies 
there    still.     Let   us  sit   down  upon  it,  good   mother." 
Aloyse  seated  herself  beside  Margaret,  and  laid  her  head 
upon  her  friend's  shoulder.     The  setting  sim  gilded  the 
leaves  with  his   dying  rays.     "  See,"  whispered  Aloyse, 
"the  sun  goes  down  in  Spain;  but,"  she  continued,  "in 
his  America  it  rises  again,  and  in  his  heaven  it  shines  for- 
ever !"     These  were  her  last  words.     She  died  in  Mar- 
garet's arms. 


SONG. 

TO     A     LADY. 


BY     MRS.     E.     A.     CURTISSHULCE. 


Ah  no  !  he  is  not  coming, 

He'll  not  be  here  to-night ; 
Smooth  not  thy  raven  tresses. 

Glance  not  thine  eye  so  bright. 
Yet  doubt  not  that  he  loves  thee 

With  true  devotion  still, 
Though  man  hath  sterner  duties 

Than  wait  on  woman's  will. 

I  know  that  woman's  pathway 

Is  strewn  with  autumn  flowers, 
Save  in  her  beauty's  zenith. 

Her  summer's  golden  hours  ; 
Yet  autumn  days  are  laden 

With  fi'uits  which  spring  hath  not, 
And  with  leaves,  whose  rainbow  goi-geousness. 

Makes  the  rose-bud's  all  forgot. 

And  when  thy  babe  is  sleeping. 

And  thou  art  worn  and  sad 
With  watching  for  his  footstep 

Who  makes  thy  home  so  glad  ; 
When  the  light  of  faith  is  burning 

Dimly  at  its  mortal  shrine, 
Tiu-n  whei-e  incense  tears  are  heeded, 

Richer  drops  have  gushed  than  thine  ! 


242  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Crimson  drops  at  Gethseraana, 

Holy  tears  at  Lazarus'  tomb, 
Cana's  bridal,  Nain's  burial, 

And  Jerusalem's  wept  doom, 
Show  man's  humblest  hours  of  sorrow, 

As  of  joy,  were  felt  by  Him, 
And  if  with  thee  when  life's  brightest, 

He'll  be  with  thee  when  'tis  dim. 

And  let  me,  gentle  lady, 

One  whisper  to  thee  tell. 
Make  not  an  earthly  idol — 

Love  thou  "  wisely" — not  "  too  well ;' 
For  thy  heart  of  burning  passion 

May  be  broken  in  its  trust, 
And  a  woe  awaits  the  worship 

Of  so  frail  a  thing:  as  dust ! 


o 


I  have  seen  the  grave's  green  bosom 

Fold  the  fairest  to  its  breast. 
And  I  know  by  many  a  token 

They  were  idols  to  the  rest ; 
I  have  shared  in  this  vain  worship, 

For  ray  locks  are  blanched,  you  see, 
And  these  bitter  heart-revealings 

Treasure  as  a  shield  to  thee  ! 


FRAGMENTS   OF   MY   EARLY   LIFE. 

I  WAS  ever  an  unfortunate  child,  and  the  very  first 
lesson  which  the  nurse  endeavored  to  instill  into  me,  was, 
that  it  was  the  intention  of  nature  to  make  me  the  sport 
of  misfortune.  Rude  and  unkind  as  that  prophecy  was, 
it  has  since  been  accurately  verified  in  every  step  which  I 
have  taken,  and  in  every  avenue  which  I  have  traced. 
Often  when  I  look  back  and  dwell  upon  the  various  freaks 
I  have  encountered,  I  have  fervently  wished  that  some 
vivid  Cervantes  would  spring  into  being,  and  call  forth 
human  sympathy  by  a  faithful  picture  of  my  many  un- 
toward plights. 

My  misfortunes  date  their  origin  at  the  cradle,  and  they 
have  scrupulously  and  diligently  followed  me  up  to  the 
time  I  undertake  to  tell  them.  Were  I  to  descend  to 
trifles,  I  can  safely  aver 

"  I  never  had  a  slice  of  bread 
Particularly  nice  and  wide, 
But  fell  upon  the  sanded  floor, 
And  always  on  the  buttered  side." 

When  a  school-boy,  if  there  was  any  rig  to  be  played 
off,  I  was  sure  to  be  the  subject  upon  which  the  experi- 
ment might  be  duly  tried  ;  if  anything  went  in  opposition 
to  the  notions  of  decorum  entertained  by  our  instructor,  I 
always  had  the  honor  of  standing  in  the  attitude  of  a 
"  general  martyr  "  for  the  rest ;  and  when  I  did  cringe 
and  writhe  imder  the  weighty  vibrations  of  the  ferule,  it 
never  failed  to  elicit  ixnbounded  applause  from  my  school- 


244  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

fellows,  and  afforded  the  most  appropriate  occasion  for 
merriment.  While  I  would  wring  my  whole  body  from 
the  intensity  of  the  pain,  they  would  wring  theirs  from 
the  intensity  of  laughter. 

So  it  was,  and  whatever  is  predestined  must  come  to 
pass  ;  it  was  a  merry  song,  and  I  made  it  a  point  to  laugh 
as  heartily  as  the  rest,  as  soon  as  the  body  had  regained 
its  wonted  placidity.  At  length  I  attained  my  fourteenth 
year — wise  enough  in  my  own  estimation,' yet  too  deep 
in  the  mire  of  human  ignorance.  Unqualified  as  I  was, 
I  became  a  freshman  in  one  of  our  colleges,  and  (chide 
me  not  when  I  say  it !)  the  feeling  was  scarcely  less  than 
ethereal  in  which  I  was  enwrapped,  when,  after  a  tedious 
and  anxious  examination,  my  name  was  read  over  as  en- 
titled to  admission.  If  my  emotions  before  were  heavenly, 
what  tongue  could  describe  them,  when  the  venerable 
president,  enshrouded  in  his  silken  gown,  descended  from 
his  apparent  throne,  and  addressed  me  thus  :  "  Juvene  ! 
admit  to  vos  honori  hvjus  collefjiis  ;  .  lege  el  inteUeye,  sed 
cave  ludis."  My  heart  responded  thanks,  and  my  voice 
whispered  gratitude. 

A  step  once  taken,  is  difficult  often  to  be  retraced.  It 
was  then,  after  deep  and  mature  reflection — after  a  brown 
study,  in  Avhich  for  weeks  I  had  been  involved,  tliat  I 
injudiciously  determined  to  make  good  bj'  sport  what  I 
lacked  in  learning ;  so  that,  by  the  time  the  first  quarter 
had  made  its  evolution,  I  was  quite  an  adopt  in  inventing 
means  by  which  1  could  glide  over  corrosive  time.  In  this 
respect  I  was  by  no  means  singular,  for  I  am  willing  to 
be  (|ualifiod  to  the  fact,  that  if  ever  "  imps  "  onjcn'cd  a, 
liberal  education,  they  graduated  in  182—.  "  Halo  follows 
well  met"  we  were,  and  "deviltry"  was  the  order  of  the 
day.     At  one  time  wc  would  silence  the  vociferousncss 


FRAGMENTS     OF    MY     EARLY    LIFE.      245 

of  a  tutor  by  an  explosion  of  artillery  at  his  room  door  ; 
at  another,  disturb  the  somniferous  exploits  of  a  professor 
by  frequent  and  multifarious  breaches  of  peace.  On  the 
whole,  nothing  was  left  undone  which  should  not  have 
been  done,  and  nothing  was  done  that  ought  to  have  been. 
It  was  a  cold  night  in  December,  that  my  classmates  were 
in  secret  and  solemn  conclave  assembled.  It  was  an 
affecting  time,  and  the  length  of  physiognomy  which 
might  there  have  been  encountered,  plainly  told  that 
some  affair  of  moment  occupied  the  bosom  of  each  mem- 
ber of  the  assembly.  Silence  then  reigned  with  all  its 
solemnity,  and  not  a  discordant  voice  intruded  itself 
towards  obstructing  the  passage  of  the  following  pre- 
amble and  resolutions  : 

"  Whereas,  it  is  incumbent  upon  us,  by  the  duties  of 
our  collegiate  course,  to  assemble  in  the  chapel  two  full 
hours  before  daylight ;  and  wheieas,  also,  the  intensity  of 
cold  experienced  by  that  operation  is  beyond  endurance, 
therefore — 

"  Resolved,  that  the  sudden  transition  from  the  tem- 
perature of  a  bed-room  to  the  icy  atmosphere  of  a  chapel, 
tends  grievously  to  refrigerate  the  heated  state  of  our 
bodies. 

"  Resolved,  in  order  to  protract  this  untimely  mode  of 
rising,  that  a  committee  of  two  be  appointed,  (delegated 
as   plenipotentiaries,)  to   wait  upon  the   bell,   and  devise 
ways  and  means  for  its  perfect  silence. 

"  Resolved,  as  the  notes  of  said  bell  are  somewhat  harsh 
and  grating  to  the  ear,  that  the  aforementioned  committee 
be  authorized  to  examine  its  tongue,  and,  if  possible,  en- 
tirely pluck  out  the  unruly  member." 

As  usual,  I  had  the  honor  of  being  one  of  that  com- 
mittee ;    for  if  any  thankless  vacancy  was  ever  to  be  filled, 


246  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

my  name  was  sure  to  soil  the  blank — demurring  to  the 
contrar}',  notwithstanding.  Strict!}'  in  compliance  with 
the  letter  of  my  credentials,  I  called  upon  the  sublime 
and  lofty  disturber  of  the  students'  repose,  and.  having 
nicely  and  scientifically  inspected  its  organ  of  sound,  with 
the  all-penetrating  eye  of  an  M.  D.,  I  concluded  that 
amputation,  or  rather  extraction,  was  alarmingly  neces- 
sary. With  my  instruments,  comprising  files  and  a  ham- 
mer, I  made  the  requisite  incisions,  when  with  a  peculiar 
Vulcanic  knock  and  twist,  the  tongue  fell  into  the  hands 
of  my  overjoyed  companion.  "  A  handsome  operation," 
whispered  ray  friend. 

"Admirable,"  responded  I,  with  a  due  portion  of 
gravity.  "Now  for  inverting  the  bell,  and  applying  a  pail 
of  water  to  its  mouth." 

This  procedure,  on  account  of  its  alderman-like  appear- 
ance, was  an  undertaking  of  no  every-day  occurrence  ; 
but  we  accomplished  it  by  dint  of  perseverance,  after  a 
struggle,  unequalled,  except  by  the  Spartan  band  at  the 
strait  of  Thermopylae.  While  occupied  in  this  responsible 
and  elevated  situation,  I  could  not  help  imagining  myself 
another  philanthropic  Howard,  fathoming  the  depth  of 
misery,  and  dispensing  aid  to  the  needy — students  need 
sleep — ergo,  they  are  needy.  But  one  pail  of  water  was 
as  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  or,  rather,  in  the  bell ;  so  by  re- 
peated efforts  at  persuasion,  1  at  length  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing my  brother  committee-man  that  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  towards  the  fulfilment  of  our  instructions,  that 
we  should  add  two  more.  In  five  minutcis  after,  you 
might  have  seen  the  conmiittee,  each  with  a  bucket  in  his 
hand,  clambering  a  ladder  directly  under  the  bell.  IJav* 
ing  reached  the  summit  of  our  labors,  tiic  invfrted  organ 
of  sound  speedily  received  the  liquid  portion — this  done. 


FRAGMENTS     OF    MY     EARLY    LIFE.      247 

the  committee  bewtred  leave  to  be  discharofed  from  the 
further  consideration  of  the  subject. 

Thus  far  we  had  been  pecuharly  fortunate,  and  I  was 
descending  from  the  belfry,  laughing  in  my  sleeve  at 
having  made  my  prophetic  nurse  a  liar,  when  lo !  and  be- 
hold !  the  bell,  losing  its  poise,  dashed  its  whole  contents 
upon  my  devoted  head.  This  was  no  time  for  conflnent ; 
discovery  was  like  to  ensue ;  so,  making  the  best  of  an 
unsuccessful  speculation,  I  skulked  off  unseen.  A  few 
moments  after  this  unlucky  event  might  be  seen  entering 
room  No.  32,  a  complete  walking  icicle — there  was  no 
imitation,  the  whole  was  reality. 

But  we  had  not  to  submit  to  a  perfect  failure,  for  the 
very  next  morning  found  us  all  snugly  reposing  beneath 
our  blankets,  the  bell-clapper  having  been  bulletined 
among  the  missing.  Respecting  my  future  collegiate 
course  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  nothing  material  trans- 
pired, except  that  I  met  with  a  solitary  "  suspension," 
two  "  rustications,"  of  six  weeks  each,  and  the  eloquent 
and  interesting  perusal  of  four  "  confessions,"  merely  for 
the  diversion  of  the  faculty  and  students ;  not  to  say  any 
thing  of  seven  or  eight,  (I  do  not  recollect  those  things 
accurately,  although  they  made  a -very  beneficial  impres- 
sion on  me  at  the  time,)  candid  admonitions  and  a  number 
of  feeling  and  gentle  intimations  that  unless  my  conduct 
was  quite  different  in  future,  I  might  anticipate  an  oppor- 
tunity of  commencing  a  profession  before  my  classmates. 
However,  things  resulted  most  brilliantly,  since  having 
been  caught  in  an  affair  which  was  rather  "  counter  "  to 
the  tune  of  college  regulations,  I  was  suffered  to  graduate 
three  months  previous  to  my  classmates,  bearing  in  my 
pocket  a  diploma,  headed  with  capitals  horribly  black. 

The  meaning  of  this  premature  expression  of  approba- 


248 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


tion  on   the  part  of  the  faculty  was  to  me  a   problem  I 
could  not  solve.     What  I  had  done,  which  entitled  me  to 
this  honor,  I  could  not  for  the  soul  of  me  divine.     On  my 
arrival  home,  I   set  myself  immediately  about  inditing  an 
epistle  to  the  good  old  venerable  president,  acknowledging 
to  him  candidly  the  many  and   great   obligations   under 
Avhich  he  had  laid  me  by  this  signal  mark  of  his  esteem, 
in  advancing  merit  and  retarding  stupidity  ;    at  the  same 
time,  also,  condoling  with  him  by  reason  of  the  backward- 
ness of  ray  classmates,  who,  like  me,  and  with  me,  might 
have  graduated,  had   they   been    possessed   of   intellects 
sufficiently   capacious.     And   when    in    the    postscript    I 
blessed  the   pure   old   saint,    the   tears  rolled    down   my 
cheeks  so  large,  that  the  memory  of  some  of  our  oldest  in- 
habitants   cannot    produce   a    parallel.      And   now,   kind 
readers,  be  good  enougl;  to  regard  distance,  for  you  are 
at  this  very  moment  liolding  intercourse  with  one  who  came 
within  ihree  months  of  being   "dubbed"  a  liberally  edu- 
cated man ;    and  although  the  phantom  honor  of  a  bache- 
lor's degree  does  not  happen  to  hang  to  my  name,  yet  I 
comprise  almost  as  much  intelligence  as  if  I  had  attained 
the   "  valedictory  "  as  an  award.     As  above  hinted,  with 
the  legible  and  black-lettered  diploma  in  my  coat  pocket, 
I  launched  upon  the  world,  and,  in   short,  made  a  com- 
mencement of  the  voluminous  and  highly  interesting  study 
of  the  legal  profession.     To  me,  everything  was  the  same, 
and  in  my  view,  books,  (no  matter  of  what  they  treated,) 
"  were  born,"  (in  the  language   of  that   great  republican 
eftbrt,)  "  free  and  equal."     Since  small  matters  never  in- 
terfered in  dampening  my  calculations,  I  encountered,  not 
only  without  a  sigh,  but  even  with  a  savage  audacity,  the 
gloomy  reminiscences  of  that  monster  Blackstone. 

To  read,  was  to  me  no  herculean  labor,  but  to  under- 


FRAGMENTS     OF     MY     EARLY     LIFE.      249 

stand  was  quite  a  different  occupation  Upon  the  perusal 
of  the  very  first  page,  I  put  down  my  foot  with  a  fixed 
determination  not  to  allow  my  studies  to  draw  in  the 
slightest  degree  upon  my  intellect ;  or  if  they  should,  to 
protest  the  draft  at  sight.  This  determination  I  manfully 
maintained,  notwithstanding  I  read  every  passage  from 
cover  to  cover,  and  when  I  had  finished,  I  could  say  with 
emphasis,  /  had  read  Blackstune,  but  of  what  it  treated  I 
left  for  others  to  answer,  who  were  more  skilled  in  legal 
lore.  Next  followed  Dunlap,  then  Johnson,  and  when  I 
had  digested  his  digest,  then  I  digested  his  reports. 
Then  came  Cowan,  next  Gil  Bias ;  then  the  Statutes  ; 
then  Rob  Roy  ;  then  Jacobs'  Law  Dictionary ;  Eaton  on 
Mineralogy  ;  Henry  on  Chemistry  ;  Edwards  on  Divinity  • 
and  then  followed  in  the  train  Peregrine  Pickle,  and  after 
all,  notwithstanding  I  had  endeavored  to  sweeten  the  sour 
doses  of  law,  I  nevertheless  found  I  had  extracted  none 
of  their  valuable  juices.  I  mixed  light  reading  with  heavy 
reading,  hoping  for  favorable  results,  but  I  found  the  "gen- 
eral issue"  to  be,  that  oil,  vinegar,  and  honey  would 
never  unite.  I  studied  with  a  great  man,  as  great  in  body 
as  in  mind  ;  and  it  required  no  criterion  eye  to  read  what 
was  passing  inwardly  in  his  mind  respecting  my  future 
brilliancy.  In  fact,  (taking  me  aside  one  day,)  he  re- 
marked— "  I  have  some  serious  misgivings  with  regard  to 
your  eminence,  for,  waving  all  symptoms  of  compliment, 
I  should  be  very  much  surprised  should  you  hereafter 
rival  Lord  Eldon ;  but  as  miracles  are  by  no  means  rare 
in  latter  days,  such  an  occurrence  might  take  place.  Do 
not,  however,  understand  me,  (I  entreat  you,)  to  say  that 
I  anticipate  any  such  result,  (far  be  it  from  me  to  mislead,) 
but  on  the  contrary,  should  you  turn  out  to  be  a  middling 
pettifogger,  (and  this  expression  was  accompanied  by  a 
12 


250'  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

supercilious  curl  of  the  lip,)  you  will,  let  me  assure  you, 
derange  every  idea  I  have  ever  formed  on  the  subject." 
Having  brought  to  a  conclusion  this  rodomontade  attack 
upon  my  vanity,  I  gave  him  a  hearty  squeeze  of  the  hand 
and  left  him  in  disgust ;  inwardly  confounding  him  for  being 
so  purblind  as  not  to  discover  in  me  some  pledge  of  future 
success.  However,  having  concluded  to  ponder  well  his 
salutary  hints,  I  sounded  a  retreat  from  the  legal  pro- 
fession. I  adopted  the  idea  of  turning  my  attention 
towards  procuring  a  partner  for  life,  and  then  comfortably 
retiring  from  the  busy  and  unprotitable  gaze  of  the  world. 
Here,  indeed,  a  pretty  face  saved  me.  For  while 
many  of  my  laborious  and  learned  companions  plodded 
on  through  life,  always  industrious,  always  correct  in  their 
deportment,  and  always  poor,  I  married  an  heiress  who 
fell  in  love  with  me  from  my  personal  charms  ;  and  in 
spite  of  my  idleness  and  my  hatred  of  Blackstone,  I  am 
now  a  lawyer  of  more  business  than  most  of  my  com- 
patriots. 


'/.V 


THE     INEB  RI  ATE. 


There  is  woe  in  the  gleam  of  the  sparkUng  cup, 
A  subtle  spell  in  its  wild  flashing  light  ; 
It  scorches  the  heart  with  a  burning  breath, 
And  casts  o'er  each  joy  a  dark  mildew  blight. 

But  there's  hope  for  the  fall'n,  then  be  not  despairing  ; 
Arise  in  the  might  of  stern  Virtue's  control ; 
Make  trial  at  once,  thy  God  will  sustain  thee, 
Should  waves  of  temptation  encircle  thy  soul. 

O,  listen,  inebriate,  to  one  who  would  win  thee ! 
Shake  off  the  fetters  which  gallingly  bind  ; 
Rouse  to  thy  manhood,  let  not  the  oppressor, 
With  shackles  of  iron,  chain  down  thy  free  mind. 

Yield  to  the  pale-browed,  sad  pleader  beside  thee, 
Let  the  vows  of  thy  marriage  hour  steal  to  thy  heart, 
0  sign  but  the  Pledge,  and  the  bright  bow  of  promise 
Shall  illumine  thy  pathway,  nor  ever  depart. 

C.  K.  K. 

Willi A.MSBURGH,  July  7th,  1849. 


THE     LOST    KITE 


BY      MISS     GOULD. 


"  My  kite  !  my  kite  !  I've  lost  my  kite  ! 
Oh !  when  I  saw  the  steady  flight 
With  which  she  gained  lier  lofty  height, 
How  could  I  know,  that,  letting  go 
That  naughty  string  would  bring  so  low 
My  pretty,  buoyant,  darling  kite, 
To  pass  forever  out  of  sight ! 

"  A  purple  cloud  was  sailing  by. 
With  silver  borders,  o'er  the  sky  ; 
I  thought  it  seemed  to  come  so  nigh, 
I'd  let  my  kite  go  up  and  light 
Upon  its  fringe  so  soft  and  blight, 
To  see  how  noble,  high,  and  proud 
She'd  look  while  riding  on  a  cloud  ! 

"  As  near  her  shinino-  mark  she  drew, 

I  clapped  my  hands — the  line  slipped  through 

My  silly  fingers — and  she  flew 

Away  !  away  !  in  airy  ])lay. 

Right  over  where  the  water  lay  ! 

She  veered,  and  fluttered,  swung,  and  gave 

A  plunge !  then  vanished  in  tlie  wave  ! 


THELOSTKITE.  253 

"  I  never  more  shall  want  to  look 
On  that  false  cloud,  or  on  the  brook ; 
Nor  e'er  to  feel  the  breeze  that  took 
My  dearest  joy,  thus  to  destroy 
The  pastime  of  your  happy  boy  ! 
My  kite  !  my  kite  !  how  sad  to  think 
She  soared  so  high,  so  soon  to  sink !" 

"  Be  this,"  the  mother  said,  and  smiled, 
"  A  lesson  to  you,  simple  child  ! 
And  when  by  fancies  vain  and  wild 
As  that  which  cost  the  kite  that's  lost. 
Thy  busy  brain  again  is  crossed. 
Of  shining  vapor  then  beware. 
Nor  place  thy  joys  on  fickle  air ! 

"  I  have  a  darling  treasure,  too. 

That  sometimes  would,  by  slipping  through 

My  guardian  hands,  the  way  pursue. 

From  which  more  tight  than  thou  thy  kite, 

I  hold  my  jewel,  new  and  bright ; 

Lest  he  should  stray  without  a  guide, 

To  drown  my  hopes  in  sorrow's  tide  !" 


ALICE 


BT      PROTEUS, 


She  arrived  at  the  school  on  a  holiday  afternoon,  to- 
wards the  close  of  spring,  when  all  the  scholars  were  out 
in  the  neighboring  fields,  except  Frank  and  myself.  We 
were  seated  under  the  great  elm  in  the  dooryard,  engaged 
in  our  favorite  game,  in  which  each  alternately  endeavored 
to  surpass  the  other  by  reading  a  greater  number  of  lines 
in  Virgil  without  breaking  the  measure,  when  the  carriage 
drove  up,  and  Alice  Prior  alighted.  We  spent  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day  in  introducing  the  new-comer  to  all  the 
objects  of  interest  within  and  around  the  seminary  ;  and 
from  that  time  forth,  for  two  years,  we  three  were  insepa- 
rable companions  whenever  school  regulations  did  not  pre- 
clude our  intercourse.  It  was  the  happiest  period  of  my 
life.  I  loved  the  gentle  orphan  as  a  brother  may  love  a 
favorite  sister  ;  but  farther  than  this,  I  dared  not  give  way 
to  my  feelings,  being  aware  of  the  previous  attachment  of 
the  cousins.  At  length  I  was  recalled  to  the  city  to  su- 
perintend my  father's  mercantile  aftairs,  as  his  partner. 
Frank  and  I  corresponded  for  many  months,  until  at  length 
becoming  more  and  more  engrossed  in  the  business  of  the 
busy  world,  I  neglected  to  answer  his  letters  altogether. 
In  his  last  he  informed  me  of  the  death  of  lus  parents,  that 
Alice  had  been  adopted  by  a  natural  uncle,  a  Mr.  Morton, 
who  was  childless,  and  reported  to  be  among  the  wealthiest 


ALICE 


255 


of  the  metropolis,  and  that  his  collegiate  course  was  almost 
completed.  I  made  inquiries  for  Alice  soon  after,  but  not 
being  able  to  ascertain  her  place  of  residence,  her  remem- 
brance gradually  passed  from  my  mind,  and  I  thought  no 
more  of  the  country  belle  for  three  whole  years,  till  one 
night  I  met  her  at  a  large  party.  I  knew  her  at  the  first 
glance,  but  the  artless  school-girl  had  grown  into  the  ac- 
complished woman.  She  had  just  been  led  to  the  piano 
by  her  adopted  father  as  I  recognized  her.  Scarcely  had 
she  struck  a  dozen  notes,  before  the  numerous  groups 
throughout  the  spacious  and  thronged  saloon  became  still, 
and  ere  the  first  stanza  was  ended,  I  fancied  myself  in 
some  vast  hall  where  music  and  statuary  had  united  their 
fascination,  so  motionless  were  the  listeners,  so  charming 
the  strain.  There  was  more  of  melody  than  power  in  her 
voice,  which,  with  the  touching  expression  she  gave  to  the 
sentiment,  made  its  way  directly  to  the  heart.  She  sang 
a  few  more  popular  airs,  and  then  resigned  her  seat. 

"Can  this  be  Alice  Prior?"  whispered  I,  audibly,  as 
she  passed  me,  arm-in-arm  with  a  gentleman,  who  was 
conducting  her  to  a  little  knot  of  friends. 

"  It  is  even  so,"  returne  d  a  familiar  voice  at  my  elbow. 

I  looked  round  and  beheld  a  tall  figure  leaning  against 
a  pilaster  just  on  my  right.  I  recognized  the  features  oi 
Frank  Werner.  I  grasped  his  hand,  and  in  a  moment  we 
were  boys  again.  We  retired  to  a  distant  corner  of  the 
room,  and  there  ran  over  the  prominent  events  in  the  his- 
tory of  our  lives  since  we  parted  at  boarding-school. 
Among  other  particulars,  he  acquainted  me  with  an  en- 
gagement between  himself  and  cousin,  previous  to  her  re- 
moval to  the  metropolis  ;  of  their  subsequent  correspond- 
ence while  he  was  yet  at  college  ;  "  which  lasted  but  a  few 
months,"  continued  he,  with  emotion,  "  before  she  became 


256 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


remiss  in  answering  my  letters,  till  at  length  I  heard  from 
her  no  longer.       By   and  by  I  came  to  the  city  to  pursue 
my  professional  studies  ;  but  my  feelings  had  been  too 
deeply  wounded  by  her  silence  to  seek  an  interview.     We 
met,  however,  occasionally,  as  the  sphere  of  my  acquaint- 
ance enlarged,  but  she  had  forgotten  me,  and  she  was  no 
longer  the  unsophisticated   being  for  whom   we   contrived 
so  many  gratifications  in  our  school-boy  days.     Adopted, 
nay,  idolized  by  a  man  of  large  fortune,  transplanted  into 
the  fascinating  scenes  of  metropolitan  gayety  and  splendor, 
and  enchanted    by  all  the  pleasures  which    wealth  and 
beauty  can  summon,  she  has  learned  to  forget,  or  to  look 
back  with  disdain  on  those  simple  delights  amid  which  she 
was  nurtured.     She  has  breathed  the  malaria  of  flattery, 
till  her  young  heart  has  been  tainted  with  its  poison.    She 
has  learned  that  she  is  an  object  of  admiration.     She  has 
learned  that  she  is  heir  to  a  splendid   inheritance,  and  the 
consciousness  of  independence  is  but  another  name   for 
pride.     No  expense  has  been  spared  to  perfect  her  in  the 
fashionable  accomplishments  of  the  day,  and  these  with 
her  elegant  person  and   prospective   dowry,  have  drawn 
around  her  a  crowd  of  admirers.      I  too  still  observe  her, 
but  it  is  at  a  distance ;  I  stand  aloof  and  gaze  at  her  as  at 
some  glorious  and  unapproachable  being,  from  the  mastery 
of  whose  presence  it  is  impossible  to  break  away.     We 
meet  comparatively  often,  for  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  shun 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  her,  though  she  passes  me  un- 
noticed, or  notices  rae  but  with  indifterence." 

"  Assuredly,  my  friend,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  fortune  in 
love,  and  therefore  to  repine  at  the  awards  of  the  blind 
goddess  is  of  no  avail.  In  the  disappointments  of  alTcc- 
tion,  as  in  all  others  of  the  heart,  stoicism  is  the  true  phi- 
losophy.    Come,  come,  Frank,  away  with  Ihisboyi.sh  mel- 


ALICE.  267 

ancholy — cheer  up,  and  remember  that  though  this  pas- 
sage in  your  life  be  gloomy  and  desolate,  it  may  be  the 
highway  to  scenes  of  light  and  beauty  which  await  your 
future  progress." 

"  It  is  useless  to  philosophize,"  replied  Werner.  "Rea- 
son, I  ow^n,  shows  us  true  beacons  by  which  we  might 
safely  direct  ovir  course  ;  but,  Love  sits  at  the  helm  of  the 
heart,  and" — 

"  Should  be  thrown  overboard  for  a  blind  pilot,"  inter- 
rupted I,  "  whenever  he  trifles  with  his  trust,  amid  break- 
ers and  quicksands." 

Before  he  had  time  to  reply,  a  friend  beckoned  me  to 
her  from  a  distant  part  of  the  room.  The  lady  who  had 
summoned  me  was  one  of  the  gay  circle  in  which  Alice 
was  seated,  and  after  a  little  time  I  was  introduced  to  the 
latter.  She  had  not  forgotten  me  ;  but  whenever,  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  1  reverted  to  past  scenes,  she  be- 
came silent,  and  even  apparently  disconcerted.  At  first  I 
did  not  notice  her  embarrassment,  so  pleasing  was  it  to 
speak  of  the  associations  awakened  by  her  presence ;  but 
I  soon  discovered  my  error,  and  lemarked  to  myself  that 
there  is  no  surer  way  of  forfeiting  the  good  graces  of  those 
who  have  risen  to  consequence  from  the  humble  walks  of 
life,  than  to  remind  them  of  their  first  estate.  Pride,  like 
the  eagle,  looks  upward,  and  finds  no  gratification  in  sur- 
veying the  low  perch  from  which  it  plumed  its  wing  for 
eminence. 

"  Who  is  that  student-looking  unknown,  whom  you  left 
in  the  corner  yonder  ?"  asked  one  of  the  group.  "  He 
looks  as  pale  and  melancholy  as  a  discarded  lover." 

All  eyes  were  directed  towards  Frank,  whose  face  was 
partly  turned  towards  the  window,  through  which  the  full 
moon  was  beaming;. 


268 


THE    MOSS-ROSE 


"That's  my  friend,  Dr.  Werner,"  I  returned.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  formerly  knew  him,  Miss  Prior." 

"  Indifferently,"  she  replied,  with  nonchalance. 

"  He  affected  to  be  your  beau  at  school,  I  have  been 
informed,"  observed  another  of  the  party.  "  His  country 
gallantry  must  have  been  really  amusing." 

"  He  my  beau !"  cried  Alice,  extending  her  foi'e-finger 
with  a  scornful  smile  ;  "  that  tall  mountaineer  my  beau, 
indeed  !"  and  she  laughed  outright. 

The  gesture  and  the  contemptuous  smile  did  not  escape 
the  notice  of  their  object.  I  looked  at  the  haughty  girl, 
and  our  eyes  met.  A  blush  passed  over  her  features,  but 
it  was  instantly  followed  by  an  expression  of  careless  gayety ; 
and  tossing  a  billet  to  me,  she  said — 

"  Here,  Mr.  Morgan,  this  is  for  you  ;  you  used  to  be  an 
admirer  of  sonnets,  and  of  course  you  will  be  greatly  ob- 
liged to  me  for  so  valuable  a  present.  Your  friend  handed 
it  to  me  this  evening,  by  mistake,  I  presume." 

"Read  it,  do,  do  !"    cried  half  a  dozen  voices  at  once. 

"  No,  no,  indeed,"  interrupted  Alice  ;  "  you  must  spare 
me — I  am  positive  I  should  not  survive  such  an  intliction." 

Werner  turned  away  in  confusion,  and  withdrew  from 
the  apartment,  stung  to  the  quick. 

The  group  was  soon  after  dispersed  in  a  cotilHon,  and 
as  my  feelings  were  warmly  excited  in  my  friend's  behalf, 
I  took  the  opportunity  of  being  alone  to  see  what  he  had 
written  as  a  valedictory  to  his  cousui.  The  following  were 
the  lines  : 

Farewell — the  spell  is  broken 
That  l>cld  mo  in  its  thnill ; 
Farewell — the  wonl  is  sj)oken 

My  lips  shall  ne'er  recall ! 
And  though  we  oft  may  meet,  perchance, 
And  mingle  in  the  stirring  dance 


ALICE.  259 

With  pleasure's  idle-hearted ; 
"We  shall  not  meet  as  we  have  met, 
Ere  hope's  first  morning-star  had  set, 

Nor  part  as  we  have  parted. 

I  loved  thee,  and  must  love  thee  still 

In  memory  of  the  past. 
Amid  whate'er  of  earthly  ill 

My  future  lot  be  cast ! 
For  in  my  boyhood's  sunny  prime, 
When  brightly  from  the  urn  of  time 

Life's  golden  moments  fell. 
Thou  wert  a  peri  to  ray  eyes, 
Sent  from  Love's  own  sweet  paradise 

In  my  young  heart  to  dwell. 

Ay,  curl  that  cherub  lip  in  scorn. 

And  give  to  wit  the  reiu  ; 
And  barb  that  tongue  with  sarcasm  born 

From  thy  proud  heart's  disdain, 
In  mockery  of  one  who  erst 
Was  ever  foremost  of  the  first 

To  guard  thy  maiden  fame — 
One  who,  with  quick  adventurous  hand, 
Had  braved  the  proudest  of  the  land, 

That  lightly  named  thy  name. 

And  yet  if  thou  canst  borrow. 

In  beauty's  mirthful  pride. 
Delight  from  friendship's  sorrow, 

Smile  on,  I  will  not  chide. 
Yet  ah,  methinks  it  were  more  kind, 
More  fraught  with  woman's  feeling  mind, 

To  hide  derision's  fang 
From  one  who  even  now  would  dare 
More  than  life's  brittle  thread  could  bear, 

Ere  thou  shouldst  feel  a  pang. 


260  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

Farewell,  may  naught  of  sadness 

Thy  coming  hours  befall : 
But  thine  to  meet  with  gladness 

And  gentle  looks  from  all — 
And  mine  to  wend  my  way  alone, 
"Whether  with  thorns  or  roses  strewn. 

I  care  not — fate  shall  tell — 
Soul-nerved  with  stoic  pride  to  bear 
Calmly  the  cold  world's  wintriest  air. 

And  ev'n  thine  own — farewell. 


I  was  suddenly  roused  from  the  reverie  into  which  the 
perusal  of  the  stanzas  had  thrown  me,  by  a  shriek  which 
broke  from  near  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  and  hurrying 
towards  the  spot,  I   beheld  Alice,  pale  and   insensible,  in 
the  arms  of  the  gentleman  with  whom  she  had  been  danc- 
ing.    One  of  the  large  chandeliers  had   broken  from  its 
fastenings  by  the  jar  of  the  cotillions,  and  the  whole  weight 
of  tlie  massy  ornament  had  fallen  obliquely  upon  the  neck 
and  shoulder  of  the  beautiful  girl.       The   external   injury 
was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  after  a  little  time  she  was  so  i 
far  recovered  as  to  be  enabled    to   ride  home.     An  expe-  \ 
rienced  surgeon  was  summoned,  and  when  I  called,  a  few  ' 
days  after,  to  learn  the  state  of  her  health,  her  father  in-  | 
formed  me  that  her  case  had  been  pronounced  hopeless  !  I 
A  large  and  deep-seated  aneurism  had   made  its  appear- 
ance in  such  a  situation  that  an  openttion  was  deemed  im- 
practicable.    As  T   left  the  house,  my  promise  to  Frank 
occurred  to  me,  and  T  took  my  way  to  his  office,     I  found 
him  in  rather  a  melancholy  mood,  surrounded  with  books 
and  anatomical   drawings,  and   deeply  engaged   in   study. 
After  a  little  conversation   on  topics  connected  with  past 
scenes,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  his  cousin  since  her  late 
accident. 


ALICE. 


261 


"  No,"  be  replied,  "has  anything  of  consequence  be- 
fallen her  ?" 

I  gave  him  the  particulars  of  her  misfortune.  At  first 
he  "would  not  believe  me,  but  when  convinced  that  I  was 
in  earnest,  he  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  remain- 
ed silent  for  several  minutes.     At  length  he  asked — 

"  Did  you  say  that  Dr. despaired  of  her  recovery  ?" 

"  So  her  father  assured  me." 

"  Then  I  will  see  her,"  resumed  he,  after  a  little  pause. 
"I  have  had  no  inconsiderable  experience  in  the  treatment 
of  such  injuries." 

"  He  took  from  a  drawer  a  case  of  instruments  ;  and  hav- 
ing satisfied  himself  that  they  were  in  perfect  order,  we  set 
off  toarether  for  Mr.  Morton's. 

We  found  the  old  gentleman  walking  the  room  in  an 
agony  of  grief.  As  soon  as  he  became  a  little  calm,  I  in- 
troduced my  companion  as  a  young  surgeon  of  eminence, 
whom  I  had  taken  the  liberty  to  call  in,  thinking  that  pos- 
sibly his  experience  might  prove  of  some  benefit  to  the  suf- 
ferer. 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Morton  ;  "but  I  fear  that 
all  our  efforts  will  end  in  disappointment." 

"  While  there  is  life  there  is  hope,"  observed  Frank,  en- 
couragingly, as  they  entered  the  apartment  of  the  invalid. 

After  a  short  absence  they  returned. 

'•'And  what  think  you,  doctor?"  whispered  the  old  gen- 
tleman, as  soon  as  he  had  closed  the  door. 

"I  think — nay,  I  know  that  she  can  be  saved,"  was  the 
firm  reply. 

"Saved!  How?" 

"  By  a  painful  and  most  perilous  operation." 

"  And  who  will  perform  it,"  asked  I,  "  since  Dr. 

has  refused  ?" 


262 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


"  There  i$  one,"  replied  Werner,  "  who  will  attempt  it, 
if  his  seniors  lack  courage." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Dr. ,  the  sur- 
geon in  attendance,  entered. 

"  Ah,  Dr.  Werner,  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you — I  have 
just  driven  round  to  your  office  to  bring  you  here  ;  but 
some  one  has  anticipated  me." 

"He  has  seen  her,  doctor,"  said  the  father,  "and  bids 
me  take  comfort  in  the  prospect  of  her  recovery." 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Dr. ,  addressing  Werner,  •"  will 

you  attempt  to  take  up  that  artery,  seated  as  it  is  in  the 
very  neighborhood  of  the  heart  ?" 

"  With  your  approval  and  assistance,  sir,"  was  the  re- 

The  fact  was,  Werner  had  been  the  favorite  pupil  of 
Dr. ,  who  had  formed  so  high  an  opinion  of  his  pro- 
fessional abilities  from  the  science  and  skill  he  had  display- 
ed on  several  occasions  while  yet  a  student,  that  he  almost 
looked  upon  him  as  his  superior,  even  at  that  period,  and 
always  consulted  him  in  all  dangerous  emergencies. 

"But,"  continued  Dr. ,  "  how  can  you  expect  my 

approval  in  this  case,  when  I  remind  you  that  the  opera- 
tion you  have  in  view  has  never  been  attempted  but  once, 
and  then  by  the  first  surgeon  in  Europe,  in  whose  hands 
it  completely  failed.  I  stood  by  him  at  the  time,  and  wit- 
nessed the  painful  reluctance  with  which  he  abandoned  it, 
after  a  long-continued  and  most  anxious  efibrt." 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  young  surgeon,  respectfully,  "  I  have 
twice  successljilly  reduced  a  similar  aneurism,  and  with 
your  support  can  do  it  again." 

"Then  will  1  stand  by  you,"  said  Dr.  ,  and  retired 

to  make  the  necessary  preparations.  Before  he  withdrew, 
however,  Frank  said  to  him — 


ALICE.  263 

"  Be  kind  enough,  doctor,  not  to  mention  my  name  to 
the  patient,  if  you  please  ;  I  have  a  special  reason  for  the 
request ;  and,  pray,  throvT  a  handkerchief  over  her  face, 
for  the  countenance  of  a  suffering  female  unmans  me." 

The  arrangements  were  soon  completed,  and  we  were 
admitted  to  the  apartment  of  the  invalid.  The  patient 
had  on  a  white  undress,  and  was  seated  in  a  low  easy- 
chair,  with  her  head  reclining  on  Dr, 's  shoulder.  Her 

neck  and  the  upper  margin  of  her  bosom  were  uncovered, 
exposing  a  large   pulsating    tumor  which   seemed   on  the 
very  point  of  yielding  to   the  vital  current  that  circled  be- 
neath.    Her  father   stood   by,  holding   her  hand,  with  a 
countenance  in   which   hope,  fear,  and   sorrow  were  most 
touchingly  depicted.     I  glanced  instinctively  and  with  an 
absorbing  feeling  of  apprehension  towards  the  young  sur- 
geon, as  he  prepared  himself  for  the  fearful  operation  with 
a    composure    so    marked,  that   it   seemed   to  border  on 
apathy.       He  was  paler  than  usual,  but  then  I  could  not 
detect  the  slightest  quivering   of  a  muscle — he  was  per- 
fectly  firm  and   self-collected.       Every  lineament  of  his 
face  showed  the  mastery  of  mind  over  the  strong  passions 
which   inust   be   subjected   during  the   performance  of  his 
dangerous  task,  and   accordingly  there  was  no  more  emo- 
tion to  be  detected  in  the   bearing  of  that   manly  frame, 
than  if  it  had  been  chiselled  from   the  insensible   marble. 
As  he  bent  down,   however,  and   with  one   stroke  of  the 
knife  made  a  deep  and  free  incision   along  that  beautiful 
bust,  which  was  followed   by  a  convulsive   tremor  and  a 
suppressed  groan  of  the  sufferer,  I  thought  1  heard  him 
catch  his  breath   for  once,   spasmodically  ;  but  no  other 
sign  of  discomposure  escaped  him. 

" Father,  dear  father,"  cried  the  poor  girl,  "clasp  my 


264 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


hand  closer — closer  still — I  can't  feel  you — so — so — that 
will  do." 

Tears  stood  in  the  old  man's  eyes,  and  he  turned  away 

his  face  from  the   scene.      Even  Dr. ,  veteran  as  he 

was,  respired  with  difficult)'.  But  the  adventurous  opera- 
tor kept  steadily  on,  dextrously  winding  deeper  and 
deeper  amidst  nerves,  veins,  and  arteries,  with  a  skill,  on 
the  perfect  integrity  of  which  depended  the  life  of  the 
lovely  being  in  whose  fate  he  was  so  warmly  interested — 
his  progress  rendered  doubly  obscure  by  the  effusion  of 
blood,  and  doublj"  dangerous  from  the  tinnatural  situation 
of  the  surrounding  parts — until  at  length,  by  a  masterly 
effort,  he  succeeded  in  securing  the  deep-laid  and  ruptur- 
ed vessel.     The  dressings  were  soon  adjusted,  and  leaving 

Dr. and  the  father  to  replace  the  patient  in  bed,  we 

retired  to  the  drawing-room.  Frank  threw  himself  on  the 
sofa,  exhausted  by  the  smothered  and  almost  insupporta- 
ble excitement  of  the  scene  through  which  he  had  just 
passed. 

"  Some  air,"  said  he,  faintly  ;  "  I  feel  ill — very  ill.  There 
is  a  strange  sense  of  dizziness  in  my  head,  and  of  suffoca- 
tion here,"  he  continued,  laying  his  hand  on  his  breast, 
"  which  almost  overcomes  me." 

I  threw  up  the  window,  and  the  cool  air,  with  a  glass 

of  wine,  partially  restored  him.     Dr. now  entered, 

his  benevolent  countenance  beaming  with  such  an  expres- 
sion of  admiration  as  a  fond  parent  exhibits  on  the  triumph 
of  a  favorite  child. 

•'  Well,  well,  my  son,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  will  no  longer 
be  proud  of  my  surgical  abilities.  Hitherto  I  have  thought 
there  was  nothing  practicable  within  the  compass  of  my 
art  which  I  coidd  not  perfoim  ;.  but  you  have  taught  me 
a  new  lesson,  and  I  own  my  mistake." 


ALICE.  265 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  mingled  expressions 
of  gratitude  and  respect  with  which  the  father  greeted  the 
saviour  of  his  child.  He  took  him  affectionately  by  the 
hand,  he  solicited  the  favor  of  his  friendship,  and  amid 
thanks  and  benedictions,  begged  him  to  mention  any  sum 
— even  to  the  extent  of  half  his  fortune — as  a  remunera- 
tion for  the  obligation  he  had  conferred. 

"  The  consciousness  of  having  performed  my  duty,  and 

secured  the  regard  of  such  men  as  yourself  and  Dr. ," 

returned  the  young  surgeon,  "were  an  ample  reward  for 
my  services.  But  of  this  we  will  speak  at  some  future 
day.  In  the  mean  time,  as  I  am  obliged  to  leave  town 
to-morrow,  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  dispense  with  any 
further  assistance  on  my  part — the  welfare  of  your  daugh- 
ter could  not  be  entrusted  to  safer  hands  than  those  of 
Dr. ." 

Before  the  expiration  of  a  month,  Alice  was  restored  to 
perfect  health.  About  this  time,  one  afternoon,  the  ser- 
vant brought  in  a  note  from  Mr.  Morton  to  Werner,  re- 
questing him  to  call  at  his  house  as  early  as  he  could  make 
it  convenient.  He  did  so.  The  old  gentleman  met  him 
with  all  the  kindness  of  their  last  interview. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  doctor,  partly  because  I  had  a 
selfish  wish  to  see  you  myself,  and  partly  because  my 
daughter  desires  to  thank  you  personally  for  the  continu- 
ance of  that  life  for  whose  preservation,  under  Providence, 
she  is  indebted  to  yom-self  alone.  Walk  into  the  parlor, 
and  she  will  be  with  you  presently." 

The  door  opened  soon  after,  and  Alice  entered.  Her 
cheeks  had  not  yet  recovered  their  usual  color,  yet  never, 
perhaps,  before  had  she  appeared  so  beautiful  as  at  that 
moment.  During:  her  convalescence  she  had  been  made 
acquainted  with  the  danger  from  which  she  had  just  es- 


266  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

caped,  and  the  name  of  the  injured  individual  whose  skill 
had  conducted  her  safely  through  that  fearful  crisis.  There 
is  no  better  moralist  than  sickness.  The  spirit  of  pride, 
mirth,  and  ambition  are  rebuked  and  exorcised  from  the 
bedside  of  disease.  This  was  the  case  with  the  poor  girl 
during  her  recent  illness.  The  fascinating  illusions  of  the 
gay  world,  which  had  for  years  dazzled  her  too  credulous 
imagination,  had  given  place  to  the  sober  realities  of  the 
sick  chamber.  Removed  from  the  excitement  of  that 
thoughtless  world,  she  had  an  opportunity  for  reflection. 
Memory  had  been  busy  with  the  images,  the  endearments 
of  the  past.  The  friends  of  her  early  orphanage — the 
kindness  she  had  experienced  at  their  hands — the  vows 
and  the  visions  of  her  first  attachment,  had  all  passed 
again  and  again  before  her  mind,  mingled  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  ingratitude  and  broken  faith  ;  and  she  now 
presented  herself  before  her  slighted  lover,  humiliated  and 
self-condemned.  Frank  rose  to  receive  her.  The  poor 
girl  hid  her  face  with  her  hands,  while  the  tears  gushed 
out  from  her  jewelled  fingers. 

He  led  her  to  the  sofa  and  seated  himself  beside  her. 
After  a  momentary  silence,  he  said — 

"  Spare  me,  cousin  Alice,  I  entreat  you.  Though  there 
have  been  times  when  I  have  prayed  to  see  you  shed  such 
tears,  yet  now  that  those  prayers  are  answered,  I  cannot 
see  you  weep." 

"  Ah,  Werner,  forbid  not  the  sacrifice  of  sincere  con- 
trition— it  is  the  fittest  requital  I  can  make  for  the  wrongs 
you  have  suffered  from  my  unkindncss,  and  the  one  which 
remorse  would  wring  fron  my  heart,  though  it  should 
struggle  to  resist  the  impulse  of  its  better  nature  ." 

"  Tliere  is  no  longer  need  of  such  a  sacrifice.  Fortune 
has  already  more  than  requited  rae  for  the  trials  of  which 


ALICE.  267 

you  speak,  by  affording  me  the  opportunity  and  the  will- 
ing power  to  serve  you  when  you  had  ceased  to  remem- 
ber me." 

"  Ample  has  been  your  revenge,"  sighed  the  disconso- 
late girl.      "  Yet,  can  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  I  can — I  do,"  exclaimed  Frank.  "  Your  temptations 
to  err  were  such  as  might  have  shaken  a  strongfer  mind.  I 
was  poor,  friendless,  unknown  ;  you  were  rich,  accomplish- 
ed, and  admired.  Let  us  deem  this  a  sufficient  palliation 
for  the  neglect  which  perhaps  I  have  merited." 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips — it  was  wet 
with  the  dews  of  repentant  love. 

"  These  tears,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "  shall  be  the  lethe 
in  which  I  will  drown  every  unpleasing  remembrance. 
Come,  dear  Alice,  let  us  to  your  father.  He  professes  to 
be  greatly  obliged  to  me.  With  your  permission,  I  will 
teach  him  how  he  may  cancel  the  obligation." 

"  I  have  told  him  all — your  brotherly  solicitude  in  my 
behalf — our  plighted  affection — together  with  my  bitter 
ingratitude  and  estrangement — all  this  I  have  told  him  " 

"  And  my  answer  was,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  who, 
having  entered  a  moment  previous,  had  caught  the  last 
few  words  of  Alice,  "  my  answer  was,  doctor,  that  though 
you  have  a  perfect  claim  on  her  heart  and  hand,  you  have 
no  right  to  remove  her  from  her  present  home,  and  there- 
by leave  me  childless  and  solitary.  I  cannot  live  without 
her  ;  and  as  you,  doubtless,  like  all  true  lovers,  are  in  the 
same  unfortunate  predicament,  I  see  no  other  way  than  for 
you  to  consent — and  the  sooner  the  better — to  become 
one  of  my  own  little  family  !" 


A      HUNDRED     YEARS     AGO. 

Where,  where  are  all  the  birds  that  sang 

A  hundred  years  ago  ? 
The  flowers  that  all  in  beauty  sprang, 

A  hundred  years  ago? 
The  lips  that  smiled,  the  eyes  that  wild 
In  flashes  shone,  soft  eyes  upon  ; 
Where  !  oh,  where,  are  lips  and  eyes, 
The  maiden's  smiles,  the  lover's  sighs. 

That  lived  so  long  ago? 

Who  peopled  all  the  city  streets 

A  hundred  years  ago  ? 
Who  filled  the  church  with  faces  meek 

A  hundred  years  ago  ? 
The  sneering  tale  of  sister  frail, 
The  plot  that  worked  a  brother's  hurt ; 
Where,  oh,  where  are  plots  and  sneers, 
The  poor  man's  hopes — the  rich  mnn's  fears — 

That  lived  so  long  ago? 

Where  are  the  graves  where  dead  men  slept 

A  hundred  years  ago? 
Who,  when  they  were  living,  wept, 

A  hundred  years  ago  ? 
By  other  men  that  knew  not  them, 
Their  lands  were  tilled,  their  graves  were  filled  : 
Yet  nature  then  was  just  as  gay, 
And  bright  the  sun  shone,  as  to-day, 

A  hundred  yenrs  ago. 


.'i'U-,  "s.".  -■..»-?!:iiCrLe-.r^; 


>'  //. 


MY  COUSIN  LUCY  AND  THE  VILLAGE 
TEACHER. 


BY      JAMES       HALL. 


It  has  been  well  said,  that  memory  never  loses  an  im- 
pression that  has  once  been  made  upon  it.  The  lines  may 
be  obscured  for  a  time,  as  an  inscription  is  defaced  by 
rust,  but  they  are  never  obliterated  ;  they  may  be  buried 
under  a  crowd  of  other  recollections,  but  tiiere  are  times 
when  these  roll  away  as  the  mist  rises  from  the  valley,  and 
the  whole  picture  stands  disclosed  in  its  original  integrity. 
Impressions  made  in  childhood  are  the  most  vivid  ;  years 
may  pass  and  other  remembrances  be  gathered  in,  but 
those  that  lie  deepest  are  longest  retained,  and  most  fondly 
cherished.  Other  events  touch  the  heart  and  pass  off  with- 
out leaving  a  trace,  but  these  strike  in,  engraft  themselves 
and  become  a  part  of  our  nature.  Such,  at  least,  has  been 
my  experience.  I  have  lived  a  busy,  and  I  trust  not  an 
useless  hfe  ;  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world  ;  my  feelings 
and  passions  have  been  excited,  and  my  attention  power- 
fully fixed  by  events  of  deep  interest ;  but  none  stand  re- 
corded in  the  same  bold,  indelible  characters,  as  those 
which  mark  some  of  the  remembrances  of  my  childhood. 

Not  far  from  my  father's  residence  there  was  a  school- 
house.  It  was  a  small  log  building,  such  as  we  often  see 
in  new  countries,  and  stood  in  a  grove  on  an  eminence  near 
the  road.     Whether    chance,    or   taste,    or  convenience. 


270 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


dictated  the  choice  of  the  spot,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  it  al- 
ways struck  me  as  being  uoL  only  well  adapted  to  its  pur- 
pose, but  remarkably  picturesque.  The  grove  contained 
not  more  than  an  acre  or  two  of  ground,  but  the  trees 
were  large  spreading  oaks,  that  I  have  seldom  seen  sur- 
passed in  size  or  beauty  ;  for  every  observer  of  nature  will 
agree  with  me,  that  trees,  even  of  the  same  species,  differ 
in  appearance  as  widely  as  human  beings.  In  every  grove 
the  vegetation  has  some  distinguishing  characteristic,  just 
as  all  the  inhabitants  of  a  village  have  some  trait  in  com- 
mon. The  trees  are  stinted  or  luxuriant,  spreading  or  tall, 
majestic  or  beautiful ;  or  else  they  are  vulgar,  common- 
place trees,  as  devoid  of  interest  as  the  unmeaning  people 
whom  we  meet  with  every  day.  I  never  see  a  great  oak 
standing  by  the  roadside  without  observing  its  peculiari- 
ties. Some  are  round  and  portly,  some  tall  and  spindling  ; 
some  aspire  and  others  grovel ;  one  has  a  gracefully 
rounded  outline,  and  another  a  rugged  irregular  shape. 
Here  you  may  behold  one  waving  its  head  with  a  courtly 
bend  ;  and  there  you  may  see  another  tossing  its  great 
arms  up  and  down  like  some  angular,  long-limbed,  gigantic 
body.  Trees,  too,  have  their  diseases,  their  accidents,  and 
their  adventures.  They  are  torn  by  the  winds,  shattered 
by  the  lightning  and  nipped  by  the  frost  ;  and  while 
some  of  them  have  in  their  youth  the  aspect  of  sallow  and 
dyspeptic  invalids,  others  flourish  in  a  green  old  age  ;  and 
whether  standing  singly  in  the  field,  or  crowded  together 
in  a  forest,  whether  embraced  by  ivy,  clothed  with  moss, 
or  hung  with  mistletoe,  they  always  attract  attention  by 
the  peculiarities  which  they  derive  from  these  and  other 
incidents. 

Our   school-house   oaks    were   of    the    majestic    kind. 
They  had  braved  the  elements  for  at  Iciist  a  centuiy,  and 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  271 

seemed  to  be  still  in  the  vigor  of  life.  Their  great,  dark 
trunks  were  covered  with  moss,  and  their  immense 
branches,  interlocking  far  above  the  ground,  shadowed  it 
with  a  canopy,  that  not  a  sunbeam  could  penetrate.  The 
soil  was  trodden  hard  and  smooth  by  the  school-boys,  and 
covered  with  a  short  greensward,  over  which  the  wind 
swept  so  freely  as  to  carry  away  all  the  fallen  leaves. 

Here  we  played,  and  wrestled,  and  ran  races ;  here  in 
hot  weather,  the  master,  forsaking  the  school-house,  dis- 
posed his  noisy  pupils  in  groups  among  the  trees  ;  here 
the  rustic  orator  harangued  his  patriotic  fellow- citizens  on 
the  Anniversary  of  Independence ;  and  here  the  itinerant 
preacher  addressed  the  neighbors  on  the  Sabbath.  On 
occasions  like  the  latter,  our  grove  became  as  gay  as  a 
parterre.  The  bonnets,  and  ribbons,  aixd  calicoes  were  as 
numerous  and  many-colored  as  the  flowers  of  the  field. 
The  farmers  and  their  families  generally  came  to  the 
preaching  on  horseback ;  and  it  was  a  fortunate  animal 
that  bore  a  lighter  burden  than  two  adults  and  a  brace  of 
children.  The  young  women  rode  behind  their  brothers  or 
sweethearts,  or,  in  default  of  such  attendants,  mounted 
sociably  in  pairs,  the  best  rider  taking  the  saddle  and 
holding  the  reins,  as  smart  girls  are  always  willing  enough 
to  do.  It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see  the  horses  hitched  to 
the  trees  in  every  direction,  showing  off  their  sleek  hides 
and  well-combed  manes  to  the  best  advantage ;  and 
decked  with  new  saddles,  and  gaudy  saddle-cloths,  and 
fine  riding-skirts,  that  were  never  exposed  to  the  weather 
or  the  eye  except  on  Sundays  and  holidays.  Then  the 
people,  before  the  sermon  began,  sitting  in  groups,  or 
strolling  in  little  companies,  looked  so  gay.  and  so  happy, 
that  Sunday  seemed  to  be  to  them,  not  merely  a  day  of 
rest,  but  of  thanksgiving  and  enjoyment.    When  they  col- 


272 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


lected  round  the  preacher,  sitting  silent  and  motionless, 
with  their  heads  uncovered  and  thrown  back  in  devout 
attention,  the  scene  acquired  a  graver  and  deeper  interest 
I  have  never  witnessed  that  spectacle  on  a  calm,  sunnv 
day,  without  a  sensation  of  thrilling  pleasure ;  and  often 
as  I  have  seen  it,  the  impression  that  it  made  continued 
ever  fresh  and  beautiful.  There  was  a  mingled  cheerful- 
ness and  solemnity  in  this  sight,  that  attached  itself  to  the 
spot,  and  I  have  afterwards  felt  in  the  midst  of  my  studies 
or  sports  on  school-days,  a  soothing  calmness  creeping 
over  me,  a  feeling  that  the  place  was  hallowed,  like  that 
which  we  experience  when  strolling  in  a  grave-yard,  or 
lingering  in  the  aisle  of  a  church . 

My  memory  clings  to  this  spot,  as  a  scene  of  the  most 
vivid  pains  and  pleasures  of  my  childhood.  I  pass  over 
the  detail  of  all  the  sufFerinors  that  I  endured  from  the 
brutality  of  ignorant  and  tyrannical  teachers ;  perhaps  I 
was  more  sensitive  than  other  children;  but  be  that  as  it 
may,  it  is  certain  that  although  I  was  fond  of  learning, 
and  docile  in  my  disposition,  1  imbibed  very  early  in  life  a 
cordial  hatred  for  the  whole  race  of  schoolmasters.  But 
I  loved  my  books  and  my  companions  ;  I  loved  to  plav  at 
ball,  and  run  races ;  and  I  loved  the  school-house  crrove, 
with  its  tall  oaks  and  verdant  lawn.  I  used  to  linger  on 
a  neighboring  hill,  to  look  on  that  graceful  swell,  and 
those  fine  trees,  and  to  wonder  whj-  1  thought  the  land- 
scape so  attractive.  Those  who  recollect  their  sensations 
on  first  entering  a  theatre,  or  reading  a  novel,  can  form 
some  idea  of  my  feelings.  That  first  play,  and  first  novel, 
remain  through  life  impressed  upon  the  imagination,  as 
standards  with  which  all  similar  objects  are  compared  ; 
and  it  was  thus  that  the  most  interesting  spot  that  attracted 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  273 

my  young  fancy,  became  to  me  the  beau  ideal  of  rural  and 
romantic  beauty. 

There  was  another  charm  connected  with  this  spot,  the 
secret  of  which  I  will  now  disclose  to  the  reader,  althoucfh 
for  many  years  I  hardly  dared  acknowledge  it  to  myself. 
My  cousin  Lucy  was  my  school  companion,  and  I  never 
think  of  that  green  hill  without  seeing:  her  slender  form 
gliding  among  its  shades,  with  the  same  calm  blue  eye, 
and  meek  countenance,  and  soft  smile,  that  she  wore  when 
we  were  children.  I  hardly  know  why  I  loved  Lucy  bet- 
ter than  anybody  else,  for  she  was  several  years  my  senior, 
and  never  was  my  playfellow.  I  romped  and  laughed 
with  the  other  girls,  and  played  them  all  sorts  of  tricks ; 
but  I  never  hid  her  bonnet,  or  pinned  her  sleeve  to  that 
of  her  next  neighbor.  From  her  childhood  she  was  se- 
date  and  womanly ;  her  deportment  was  always  delicate 
and  dignified ;  there  was  a  something  about  her  that  repelled 
familiarity,  while  the  winning  softness  of  her  manners  in- 
vited love  and  respect.  When  I  came  near  to  Lucy  I  was 
no  longer  a  wild,  mischievous  boy,  but  was  elevated  into  a 
better  and  more  rational  being,  by  the  desire  that  I  felt  to 
please  and  serve  her. 

We  had  a  succession  of  schoolmasters,  the  most  of  whom 
were  illiterate  men,  who  remained  with  us  but  a  few 
months.  At  last  there  came  one  of  higher  pretensions 
than  the  rest.  He  was  a  young  man  of  liberal  education, 
who  brought  with  him  the  hisfhest  testimonials  of  his  char- 
acter  and  attainments.  He  strolled  into  the  neighborhood 
on  foot,  and  so  great  was  his  modesty,  that  it  was  some 
time  before  anybody  discovered  his  acquirements,  or  sus- 
pected the  object  of  his  visit.  At  length  he  proposed, 
with  some  diffidence,  to  fill  the  vacant  situation  of  teacher ; 
and  having  produced  his  credentials,  was  readily  admitted 
13 


274 


THE     MOSS  -ROS  E 


to  that  thankless  office.  He  was  altogether  a  different 
man  from  any  of  his  predecessors.  His  temper  was  even, 
his  heart  kind,  his  manners  easy,  and  he  had  the  rare 
talent  of  commanding  respect  and  communicating  know- 
ledge, without  the  appearance  of  an  effort.  He  was  as 
bashful  as  a  girl,  and  as  artless  a  being  as  ever  lived. 
Everybody  liked  him ;  his  good  sense,  his  cheerfulness, 
his  inoffensive  manners  and  industrious  habits  made  him 
the  favorite  of  young  and  old. 

It  was  customary  in  those  days  for  the  schoolmaster  to 
board  with  his  patrons,  each  one  entertaining  him  for  a 
week  at  a  time,  in  rotation;  an  arrangement  which,  while 
it  divided  the  burden  of  his  subsistence  equally,  enabled 
the  whole  neighborhood  to  become  personally  acquainted 
with  the  pedagogue.     When  the  latter  happened  to  be  a 
dull,  prosing  dog,  scantily  supplied  with  good  manners 
and  good  fellowship,  the  week  of  his  reception  wore  heav- 
ily away,  the  table  was  less  plentifully  spread  than  usual, 
and  the  whiskey-jug  was  sure  to  have  suffered  some  dis- 
aster on  the  day  previous  to  his  arrival.     The  head  of  the 
family  indulged  himself  on  such   occasions  in  liberal  re- 
marks upon  the  idleness  and  effeminacy  of  learning ;  and 
the  good  wife,  by  frequent  allusions  to  the  scarcity  of  pro- 
visions, and  the  high  price  of  schooling,  gave  the  unfortu- 
nate teacher  to  understand  that  he  was  considered  a  mere 
incubus  upon  the  body  politic,  a  Mr.  Nobody,  who  yas 
only  tolerated,  and  fed,  and  allowed  to  sit  in  the  chimney 
corner,  for  the  purpose  of  keeping  the  children  out  of  mis-  | 
chief.     But  if  the  schoolmaster  was  a  pleasant  fellow,  one 
who  read  the  newspapers,  and  played  the  fiddle,  and  told  ' 
a  good  story,  the  week  of  his  visitation  brought  holiday 
times  and  high  doings  to  the  farmer's  hospitable  fireside. 
Then  the  good  man  heard  the  news,  the  girls  heard  the 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY. 


275 


violin,  and  the  mistress  of  tlie  house  found  a  patient 
auditor  to  the  recital  of  all  the  misadventures  which  had 
befallen  the  family  within  the  scope  of  her  memory. 
Then  the  boys  wore  their  holiday  clothes  every  day ;  the 
hospitable  board  groaned  under  a  load  of  good  things,  and 
the  cheerful  family  enjoyed  seven  long  days  of  good  humor 
and  good  eating. 

Of  all  schoolmasters,  Mr.  Alexis,  the  gentleman 
above  alluded  to,  was  the  most  popular  one  that  ever 
darkened  the  door  of  a  farm-house.  In  his  time  the 
"  schoolmaster's  week"  was  a  week  of  festival.  He  not 
only  read  the  news,  and  played  the  fiddle,  but  could  sing 
a  good  song,  and  recite  the  veracious  biography  of  a  hun- 
dred real  ghosts.  He  could  explain  all  the  hard  words  in 
the  Testament,  all  the  outlandish  names  in  the  newspapers, 
and  all  the  strange  hieroglyphics  which  are  mischievously 
set  down  in  the  almanac  to  puzzle  the  brains  of  simple 
country  folks.  Then  he  was  affable  and  talkative ;  with 
all  this  he  was  good-humored,  and  what  perhaps  was 
more  effective  than  all  the  rest,  he  was  good-looking. 
With  such  qualifications  he  was  always  a  welcome  visitor, 
and  I  can  well  remember  the  stir  that  his  coming  occa- 
sioned in  my  father's  house.  On  the  preceding  Saturday 
there  was  an  universal  scrubbing  ;  the  floors,  the  windows, 
the  chairs,  the  pewter  plates,  the  milk-pails,  and  the  chil- 
dren, were  all  scrubbed.  The  dimity  curtains  that  lay 
snugly  packed  away  in  the  great  press,  sprinkled  with 
lavender  and  rose  leaves,  were  now  brought  forth  and 
hung  over  the  parlor  windows ;  and  the  snow-white  coun- 
terpanes that  were  kept  for  great  occasions,  were  osten- 
tatiously spread  upon  the  beds.  The  yard  was  swept, 
and  the  great  weeds  that  had  been  suffered  to  grow  un- 
molested, were  plucked  up ;   and  the  whole  messuage, 


276 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


outhouses,  tenements,  and  appurtenances,  made  to  look 
as  fine  and  as  smart  as  the  nature  of  the  case  would 
admit.  Then  such  baking,  and  brewing,  and  cooking! 
The  great  oven  teemed  witli  huge  loaves  and  rich  pastry  ; 
yielding  forth  from  its  vast  mouth,  puddings,  and  pies, 
and  tarts  enough  to  have  foundered  a  whole  board  of 
aldermen.  The  fatted  calf  was  killed,  the  brightest  orna- 
ments  of  the  pig-sty  and  poultry-yard  were  devoted  to 
the  knife  ;  and  the  best  blood  of  the  farm  was  freely  spilled 
to  furnish  forth  delicate  viands,  with  which  to  pamper  the 
appetite  of  that  important  and  popular  character,  the 
schoolmaster. 

I  am  often  singular  in  my  opinions,  for  I  do  not  consider 
myself  bound  to  believe  anything,  merely  because  every- 
body else  believes  it.  As  to  the  schoolmaster,  I  disliked 
him  from  the  very  first ;  and  when  everybody  else  praised 
him  I  was  silent.  I  had  an  inherent  antipathy  against  all 
pedagogues.  I  viewed  them  as  our  natural  enemies;  a 
race  created  to  scourge  and  terrify'  children ;  and  for  the 
person  in  question  I  entertained  a  special  and  particular 
aversion.  This  was  the  more  singular  as  I  was  by  nature 
confiding  and  placable,  and  never  indulged  a  malignant 
feeling  towards  any  other  human  being.  He  treated  me 
with  kindness,  instructed  me  with  unwearied  patience, 
and  I  verily  believe,  would  have  found  the  road  to  my 
heart,  had  I  not  suspected  that  he  was  searching  out  the 
way  that  led  to  my  cousin  Lucy's.  1  was  always  jealous 
of  her,  because  the  disparity  of  our  ages  placed  her  at  a 
distance  which  almost  extinguished  hope,  and  because 
she  always  treated  me  as  a  boy  and  a  relation;  and  either 
never  did,  or  never  would,  see  that  I  cherislu-d  feclin<rs 
towards  her  infinitely  more  tender  tlian  any  that  ihe  mere 
ties  of  consanguinity  could  have   awakened.     A  boy  in 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY. 


277 


love  becomes  cunning  beyond  his  years.  Unable  to  enter 
the  lists  as  a  candidate,  and  obliged  to  look  on  in  silence, 
he  becomes  the  secret  and  vigilant  enemy  of  his  uncon- 
scious rival.  I  was  continually  watching  the  schoolmaster 
and  my  coiisin  Lucy  ;  and  not  a  glance,  nor  a  blush,  nor 
a  touch  of  the  hand  escaped  my  jealous  eye.  An  indiifer- 
ent  observer  would  have  seen  nothing  in  their  intercotirse 
to  excite  the  slightest  suspicion ;  an  enamored  boy,  who 
had  loved  devotedly  from  the  first  dawn  of  intelligence, 
read  volumes  of  meaning  in  every  act  and  look.  The  con- 
duct of  both  of  them  was  perfectly  delicate  and  unexcep- 
tionable. There  was  not  the  least  approach  to  gallantry 
on  his  part,  not  an  inviting  nor  an  encouraging  glance  on 
hers  ;  but  I  could  mark  the  softened  tone  of  his  voice,  and 
the  involuntary  reverence  of  his  manner  when  he  addressed 
her.  I  could  detect  the  brightening  of  his  eye  when  she 
spoke,  and  the  courteous  bow  with  which  he  replied  to 
any  question  from  her,  so  different  from  the  commonplace 
civility  with  which  he  treated  his  other  female  pupils. 
He  often  walked  home  with  her,  but  never  without  other 
company,  for  she  was  always  surrounded  by  children,  one 
or  two  of  whom  she  held  by  the  hand,  as  if  to  prevent 
the  possibility  of  a  tele-a-Ute.  Perhaps  she  never  had  a 
thought  that  there  was  any  particular  meaning  in  his  at- 
tentions ;  but  there  is  an  instinct  in  female  delicacy,  and 
although  it  might  never  have  occurred  to  Lucy  that  her 
teacher  had  oppoi-tunities  beyond  other  men,  which  re- 
quired that  she  should  place  a  careful  watch  over  her 
affections,  nature  regulated  her  conduct.  I  was  often  with 
them  ;  they  conversed  without  constraint,  and  never  spoke 
of  love,  of  courtship,  or  marriage.  But  he  pointed  out  to 
her  the  finest  traits  of  the  landscape,  gathered  for  her  the 
choicest  flowers,  and  discoursed    of   poetry ;    sometimes 


278  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

reciting  the  most  beautiful  passages,  in  so  elegant  a  tone 
that  I  could  have  knocked  him  down,  and  was  ready  to 
quarrel  with  Lucy  for  the  apparent  interest  with  which 
she  listened.  Often  did  I  wish  that  he  was  a  thousand 
miles  off,  or  that  I  was  a  schoolmaster. 

It  would  be  too  tedious  to  set  down  all  the  mischievous 
pranks  that  I  played  our  teacher  in  revenge  for  his  sup- 
posed attachment  to  my  cousin.  Though  fond  of  learning, 
I  obstinately  persisted  in  a  resolution  to  owe  nothing  to 
his  teaching  ;  and  more  than  once  disgraced  him  and  my- 
self by  wilful  blunders,  at  our  public  examinations.  I 
incited  the  biggest  boys  into  conspiracies  against  his  peace 
and  dignity.  Once  when  he  was  going  to  a  tea  party  at 
my  uncle's,  a  little  better  dressed  than  usual,  a  troop  of 
us  scampered  past  him  as  he  was  crossing  a  miry  brook, 
and  pretending  not  to  observe  him,  splashed  a  shower  of 
mud  and  water  over  his  holiday  suit.  We  sent  him  one 
day  into  a  large  company,  with  a  grotesque  figure  chalked 
on  his  back;  and  on  another  occasion  scorched  off  his 
eyebrows  by  exploding  gunpowder  under  his  nose,  while 
he  was  intently  engaged  in  working  a  problem  in  algebra. 
None  of  these  persecutions  ever  ruffled  his  temper ;  and 
when  my  mother,  who  could  not  believe  that  the  fault  was 
mine,  reproached  him  with  the  slowness  of  my  progress, 
he  mildly  told  her  that  the  greatest  geniuses  were  often 
dull  boys  at  school,  and  that  I  would  no  doubt  make  a 
shining  man. 

At  length  the  terra  of  the  schoolmaster's  engagement 
expired,  and  my  heart  bounded  with  joy  when  I  heard  he 
was  going  to  quit  the  country.  I  was  at  my  uncle's  on 
the  morning  of  his  departure,  when  he  called  to  take 
leave  of  the  family.  Lucy  was  in  the  garden,  and  Ak'xis 
went  -there  to  look  for  her.     Young  as  I  was,  I  could 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY 


279 


readily  compreliend  that  a  latent  passion  would  be  most 
apt  to  betray  itself  in  a  parting  interview ;  and  that  of  all 
places  in  the  woi'ld  a  garden  is  the  fittest  to  excite  tender 
feelings  in  the  bosom  of  young  lovers.  In  a  moment  a 
thousand  thoughts  flashed  through  my  mind ;  in  another 
moment,  love  and  jealousy  prompted  me  to  observe  a  meet- 
ing which  my  foreboding  heart  told  me  would  be  fraught 
with  more  than  usual  interest.  It  was  a  mean  act ;  but 
jealousy  is  always  mean.  I  was  too  young,  too  much  in 
love,  and  too  angry  to  reflect ;  and  if  I  had  reflected,  who 
could  have  thought  it  improper  to  witness  anything  which 
could  possibly  take  place  between  two  such  perfect  beings 
as  my  cousin  Lucy  and  the  schoolmaster  ? 

I  crept  secretly  to  the  garden,  and  from  the  covert  of  a 
thick  hedge  saw  Alexis  approach  my  cousin.  He  took 
her  hand,  and  told  her  that  he  had  come  to  bid  her  fare- 
well ;  that  he  had  bade  adieu  to  all  his  other  friends,  and 
had  deferred  calling  upon  her  until  the  last,  because  to 
part  with  her  was  more  painful  than  all  the  rest.  There 
was  a  touching  softness  in  his  voice,  and  a  corresponding 
melancholy  clouded  his  features.  "  What  a  canting  ras- 
cal!"  said  I  to  myself;  "  I'm  afraid  Lucy  will  never  be 
able  to  stand  it." 

He  then  dropped  her  hand,  and  began  to  pluck  twigs 
from  a  peach-tree,  while  Lucy  was  industriously  engaged 
in  demolishing  a  great  rose.  At  last  he  said,  "  There  is 
one  subject" — Lucy  stooped  down,  and  began  to  pull 
the  weeds  from  a  tulip-bud.  The  schoolmaster  stopped, 
and  looked  embarrassed. 

"  Silly  fellow  !"  said  I,  exultingly ;  "  why  does  he  not 
kneel  down,  and  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart?"  I  took 
courage  when   I  saw  his  trepidation,  believing   that  he 


280 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


would  never  be  able  to  tell  his  love,  or  that  Lucy  would 
discard  so  clumsy  a  lover. 

"  Miss  Lucy" — said  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Sir,"  said  Miss  Lucy. 

"  What  a  canting  villian!"  said  I. 

Mr.  Alexis  looked  round,  as  if  fearful  of  observation. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  were  steaUng,"  said  I;  "and  well 
he  may — the  vile  pedagogue  !" 

Alexis  sighed,  threw  down  his  eyes,  and  resumed  : 
"  There  is  one  subject.  Miss  Lucy,  upon  which  I  have  long 
wished" — he  looked  up,  but  Lucy  was  several  paces  off, 
twining  the  delicate  vines  of  a  honeysuckle  through  the 
lattices  of  a  summer-house. 

"  She  will  never  have  him  !"  said  I,  in  an  ecstasy ;  "  I 
know  she  would  never  have  a  whining,  canting,  pitiful 
schoolmaster." 

Alexis  followed  Lucy  to  the  summer-house,  and  re- 
marked that  the  honeysuckles  were  very  fragrant. 

"  Very  !"  said  my  cousin. 

"He  has  dropped  the  subject,"  thought  I.  "Dear 
Lucy  !  hoAv  well  she  managed  him  !  Ah !  these  school- 
masters know  not  how  to  make  love;  if  I  were  there  I 
could  show  him  how !"  I  breathed  freely,  and  thought 
it  was  all  over. 

Alexis  stood  by  the  side  of  Lucy ;  he  leaned  towards 
her,  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  What  he  said  I  know  not, 
but  the  words  were  potent,  for  Lucy  turned  her  head  from 
him  ;  and  I  saw  that  her  face  was  covered  with  blushes, 
redder  than  the  coral  flowers  that  liunu  around  her.  I 
thouglit  she  was  angry.  "  If  he  has  dared  to  insult  my 
cousin,"  said  I,  "  liow  proudly  will  1  avenge  her  quarrel !" 
I  looked  again,  and  could  scarcely  believe  my  eyes !     Lu- 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  281 

cy's  head  was  reclining  upon  the  shoulder  of  Alexis,  and 
one  arm  was  thrown  gently  around  her !  I  thought  their 
lips  met ! 

I  could  stay  no  longer.  I  fled  from  the  hateful  scene, 
burning  with  rage  and  jealousy,  and  deeply  mortified  at 
my  own  meanness,  in  having  become  the  voluntary  and 
secret  witness  of  that  which  should  have  been  sacred  from 
every  eye. 

In  a  few  days  after  this  occurrence  I  left  my  native 
country.  I  had  long  been  destined  for  the  sea,  and  hav- 
ing now  received  a  midshipman's  warrant  in  the  navy,  set 
out  for  the  sea-board.  After  I  had  bid  adieu  to  all  my 
other  friends,  I  went  to  take  leave  of  Lucy  ;  for  I,  too,  felt 
that  this  was  the  most  painful  of  my  separations  ;  the  part- 
ing with  her  seemed  like  breaking  the  last  and  tenderest 
tie  that  bound  me  to  the  land  of  my  birth.  She  had  al- 
ways treated  me  with  the  affection  of  a  sister,  and  never 
did  her  manner  seem  so  tender  as  at  this  moment.  When 
I  left  her  father's  house,  she  followed  me  across  the  lit- 
tle lawn  before  the  door,  and  as  I  threw  the  reins  over  my 
horse's  neck  and  lingered  to  repeat  my  adieu,  she  put  a 
paper  into  my  hand.  Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and 
my  own  were  not  dry. 

I  v/as  some  miles  on  my  way  from  home  before  my 
emotion  subsided  sufficiently  to  permit  me  to  read  Lu- 
cy's note.  In  this  she  disclosed  to  me  her  engagement 
with  Alexis ;  she  said  it  had  been  approved  by  her 
parents,  and  that  the  marriage  would  take  place  when- 
ever he  should  be  established  in  a  profession,  for  which  he 
was  preparing  himself.  She  spoke  of  the  fair  prospects 
that  smiled  before  her,  in  an  union  with  one  so  amiable 
and  highly  gifted.  She  said  that  she  made  this  disclosure 
because  I  was  her  nearest  and  dearest  relative,  after  her 
13* 


282  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

parents,  and  was  on  the  eve  of  so  long  an  absence,  that 
the  separation  seemed  to  be  almost  final.  More  she  said 
which  I  need  not  repeat ;  it  was  all  kind  and  sisterly,  and 
I  vowed  that  I  would  always  love  my  cousin  Lucy,  whether 
she  married  the  schoolmaster  or  not. 

Her  note  had  one  good  effect,  which  harsher  measures 
would  have  failed  to  produce.  Her  generous  confidence 
subdued  me  ;  and  as  I  reflected  upon  it  in  my  cooler  mo- 
ments, I  determined  to  smother  my  ill-fated  passion,  and 
to  love  Lucy  only  in  manner  and  form  as  her  cousin 
lawfully  might.  I  resolved,  moreover,  to  forego  all  my 
veno-eance  aofainst  Alexis  and  to  think  of  him  with  kind- 
ness. 

In  a  few  days  I  embarked.  We  had  a  brilliant  cruise. 
The  war  with  Great  Britain  was  just  declared,  and  the 
ocean  swarmed  with  our  enemies.  We  were  frequently 
engaged,  and  generally  successful.  The  novelty  and  ex- 
citement of  this  life  soon  caused  a  wonderful  revolution  in 
my  feelings.  I  was  no  longer  a  romantic  boy,  brooding 
over  a  hopeless  passion,  with  the  single  object  of  my  ado- 
ration continually  before  my  eyes.  My  heart  had  set  up 
other  idols ;  it  had  now  ample  sea-room,  and  like  our  gal- 
lant vessel,  rode  gaily  over  the  sparkling  ocean  of  life.  I 
learned  to  think  of  Lucy  as  the  destined  bride  of  another; 
yet  I  thought  of  her  as  a  lovely  and  a  hallowed  being, 
and  sometimes  pronounced  her  name  with  the  reverence 
with  which  a  devout  Catholic  utters  that  of  his  tutelar 
saint.  Often  when  our  ship  lay  becalmed,  when  the  clear 
moonlight  was  spread  over  the  ocean,  when  the  waves 
were  at  rest  and  everything  was  still,  I  would  lie  for 
hours  upon  the  deck,  thinking  of  the  school-house  and 
its  beautiful  grove,  and  my  fair  cousin.  Then  I  would 
think  of  the  honors  that  awaited  me  ;  of  the  time  when  !• 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  283 

should  be  numbered  among  tlie  heroes  of  my  country  ; 
and  would  sigh  to  reflect  that  the  lovely  flower  which  so 
proudly  I  would  have  twined  among  my  laurels,  would  be 
blushing  unseen  in  the  lowly  cottage  of  a  country  school- 
master. 

During  my  first  cruise,  which  lasted  nearly  two  years,  I 
was  so  fortunate  as  to  distinguish  myself  on  several  occa- 
sions. But  I  panted  for  higher  honors ;  and  on  our  re- 
turn to  port,  finding  a  fine  frigate  on  the  point  of  sailing, 
I  solicited  permission  to  join  her ;  and  being  considered  as 
an  efficient  officer,  my  request  was  granted,  and  I  sailed 
on  another  cruise  without  setting  my  foot  on  shore.  This 
act  of  devotedness  to  my  profession  raised  me  in  the  eyes 
of  my  commander,  v/^ho  afforded  me  every  opportunity  of 
acquiring  distinction.  -  I  now  rose  rapidly.  When  at  sea 
I  was  engaged  in  every  hazardous  enterprise,  and  when  in 
foreign  ports  my  superior  introduced  me  into  the  best  so- 
ciety. Among  the  exotic  beauties  whom  I  beheld  I  saw 
none  so  beautiful  as  Lucy,  but  many  who  were  more  pol- 
ished. Perhaps  my  taste  became  vitiated,  for  although  I 
still  cherished  the  memory  of  her  unpretending  graces,  I 
learned  to  admire  the  more  dazzling  charms  of  others,  and 
to  indulge  the  thought  that  I  might  at  some  future  day 
adore  another  in  her  stead. 

After  a  long  cruise,  in  which  many  dangerous  exploits 
were  attempted,  and  some  of  them  briUiantly  accomplish- 
ed, we  were  homeward  bound,  when  we  fell  in  with  a  fine 
frigate  of  the  enemy.  Both  ships  were  soon  cleared  for 
action,  and  after  a  bloody  engagement  we  succeeded  in 
capturing  our  foe.  I  was  now  acting  as  a  lieutenant,  and 
having  the  good  fortune  to  be  placed  on  the  spar-deck, 
immediately  under  the  eye  of  my  commander,  received  his 
compliments  for  my  conduct. 


284  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

We  came  into  port  triumphantly.  Public  honors  of  the 
highest  character  were  awarded  to  us.  Dinners  and  balls 
were  given,  and  the  population  of  a  great  city  vied  in  the 
expression  of  their  patriotic  gratitude  ;  while  the  news- 
papers throughout  the  whole  continent  were  filled  with 
our  praises.  I  was  promoted  to  a  lieutenancy,  and  had 
the  gratification  of  seeing  my  name  emblazoned  in  the 
public  prints,  with  those  of  my  distinguished  superiors. 
In  these  proud  moments  I  did  not  forget  my  fair  cousin ; 
entirely  as  I  had  resigned  her,  and  cordially  as  I  wishe'd 
her  happiness,  I  sighed  to  think  of  her  obscure  and  lonely 
fate.  With  a  partner  so  bright,  so  gentle,  and  so  dear, 
to  share  my  laurels,  I  should  have  been  supremely  happy  ; 
and  I  could  not  but  marvel  at  the  capricious  decree  of 
fortune,  which  had  doomed  one  who  miglit  have  shone  as 
the  bride  of  a  naval  hero,  to  drag  out  her  existence  in  the 
vulgar  lot  of  wife  to  a  country  pedagogue. 

I  had  written  to  my  parents  on  my  arrival ;  but  a  round 
of  entertainments,  given  in  honor  of  our  victory,  prevented 
me  from  visiting  them.  One  evening,  as  I  strolled  through 
the  streets  with  a  friend,  we  passed  a  spacious  church, 
into  which  crowds  of  fashionable  people  were  hurrying  with 
apparent  eagerness. 

"  Let  us  go  in  here,"  said  my  companion,  "  and  hear  the 
fashionable  preacher — one  who  has  tuined  tlie  heads  of  the 
whole  town,  and  is  more  talked  of  than  Commodore  Perry 
or  General  Scott.  He  is  a  new  man,  who  has  eclipsed  all 
his  cotemporaries  by  his  eloquence,  while  his  learning  and 
modesty  win  universal  esteem. 

We  entered  the  church,  and  I  looked  round  upon  the 
novel  exhibition,  as  upon  some  fairy  scene.  It  was  long 
since  I  had  sat  in  the  bosom  of  a  worshij)ping  congrega- 
tion ;  and  how  different  was  this  from  the  rustic  assembla<re 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  286 

that  I  had  been  accustomed  to  see,  gathered  in  pious 
silence  under  the  school-house  oaks  !  Here  was  a  splendid 
edifice,  ornamented  with  gilding,  decorated  with  rich  hang- 
ings, and  lighted  with  brilliant  chandeliers,  whose  intense 
effulgence  awakened  in  my  unpractised  heart  a  thrilling 
sensation  of  excitement.  But  the  audience — how  gay, 
how  gorgeous,  how  beautiful !  Those  to  whom  such 
scenes  are  familiar  can  form  but  a  faint  idea  of  the  impres- 
sion made  by  a  fair  and  fashionable  crowd  upon  the  mind 
of  one  accustomed  only  to  rustic  assemblages,  or  to  the 
hardy  multitudes  who  fill  the  camp  or  crowd  the  quarter- 
deck. Here  were  gems,  and  plumes,  and  silks,  and  glow- 
ing cheeks,  and  sparkling  eyes  ;  but  there  was  also  a  sim- 
ple elegance  in  the  attire,  a  sedateness  in  the  demeanor, 
and  above  all  a  devout  humility  reigning  through  this 
thrilling  scene,  that  added  to  it  a  solemn  grandeur,  which 
exceeds  my  powers  of  description.  My  heart  was  elevated 
as  I  gazed  on  that  rich,  and  silent,  and  motionless  picture  ; 
and  I  felt  how  the  omnipotent  influence  of  religion  can 
quell  the  happy,  and  sooth  the  wretched,  and  win  the  gay, 
and  calm  down  all  the  tumultuous  passions  of  human  na- 
ture, as  oil  poured  upon  the  waves  reduces  them  to  a 
placid  surface. 

At  length  the  preacher  arose,  and  every  eye  was  turned 
towards  him.  I  looked  up,  and  what  was  my  surprise  at 
beholding  Alexis  !  I  could  not  be  mistaken,  for  there  he 
stood  in  the  same  simple  attire,  with  the  same  humble 
aspect,  and  the  same  benignant  smile,  that  were  so  fa- 
miliarly impressed  upon  my  recollection.  His  manner 
had  all  its  former  mildness,  and  his  voice  its  accustomed 
melody  ;  there  was  only  a  little  more  of  fullness  and  com- 
pass in  the  one,  and  a  slight  tinge  of  self-confidence 
added  to  the  other.     His  sermon  was  eloquent  and  able  ; 


286 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


the  language  was*  clear,  classical,  and  simple  ;  the  manner 
of  its  delivery,  calm  and  unassuming.  His  voice  was 
never  strained,  and  seldom  elevated  above  its  ordinary 
pitch ;  it  swelled  and  softened  upon  the  ear,  without  the 
slightest  effort  on  the  part  of  the  speaker,  without  the 
least  violence  to  the  sense  of  the  hearer.  There  was  no 
labor  of  the  body,  the  arm  was  never  extended,  the  hand 
only  was  raised  occasionally  from  the  cushion.  The 
whole  manner  of  the  speaker  was  mild  and  persuasive  ; 
his  argument  was  acute,  close,  and  powerful,  without  any 
attempt  to  adorn  it  with  the  graces  of  composition,  or  to 
win  applause  by  the  arts  of  oratory ;  yet  such  was  the 
effect  produced  by  the  delicate  choice  of  harmonious 
words,  their  symmetrical  arrangement  and  chaste  deliv- 
ery, together  with  the  apostolic  earnestness,  and  an  air  of 
pious  conviction  that  breathed  throughout,  that  all  felt 
and  acknowledged  that  the  speaker  had  opened  a  new 
vein  of  genuine  eloquence. 

The  deep  silence  that  prevailed  during  the  sermon,  and 
the  subdued  murmur  of  applause  that  ran  in  whispers 
through  the  congregation  when  the  service  was  over,  at- 
tested the  powerful  effect  of  the  discourse.  As  the  peo- 
ple dispersed  I  endeavored  to  make  my  way  to  Mr. 
Alexis  ;  but  the  crowd  was  so  great  as  to  prevent  me 
from  reaching  the  pulpit  imtil  he  had  disappeared ;  and 
as  it  was  late,  I  returned  to  my  lodgings,  determined  to 
seek  him  on  the  following  day.  I  now  saw  that  Lucy 
was  not  wedded  to  obscurity  and  indigence,  and  gave  her 
full  credit  for  having  discovered  a  man  of  genius  and  feel- 
ing in  the  despised  schoolmaster,  who  had  been  so  long 
the  object  of  my  contempt  and  aversion.  I  took  shame 
to  myself  for  having  presumed  to  institute  comparisons 
between  Alexis  and  myself;  and  felt  humble  in  acknow- 


J 


MY     COUSIN     LUCY.  287 

ledging  that  my  ephemeral  honors  would  be  soon  forgot- 
ten ;  Avhile  his  useful  career  and  splendid  powers  would 
sustain  for  him  a  brilliant  reputation  during  his  existence, 
and  earn  a  name  which  his  countrymen  would  cherish 
with  gratitude  when  he  should  be  no  more.  One  thing 
flattered  my  pride  and  consoled  my  prejudices ;  I  learned 
that  Mr.  Alexis  had  long  since  abandoned  his  former  vo- 
cation, and  that  my  cousin  had  not,  after  all,  married  a 
schoolmaster. 

On  the  following  morning  early,  Mr.  Alexis  anticipated 
my  visit,  by  calling  to  see  me.  We  met  cordiallj^  and  on 
the  day  after  were  jogging  sociably  together  towards  my 
native  place.  I  found  Lucy  a  proud  and  happy  wife. 
They  had  built  a  neat  cottage  on  the  school-house  hill,  in 
the  midst  of  that  beautiful  grove,  which  thej'  carefully 
preserved  in  memory  of  former  days ;  and  I  now  found 
that  I  had  not  been  singular  in  my  admiration  of  its  syl- 
van graces.  The  school-house  had  been  removed  ;  and  a 
large,  plain  meeting-house  on  a  neighboring  eminence  is 
occupied  by  a  numerous  congregation,  under  the  ministry 
of  Alexis.  Loved  and  honored  by  his  former  pupils,  the 
worthy  pastor  is  surrounded  by  them,  who  look  up  to  him 
with  gratitude  as  the  teacher  of  their  youth,  and  with 
reverence  as  the  guide  of  their  maturity  ;  while  the  happy 
Lucy,  in  the  society  of  her  early  friends  and  chosen  part- 
ner, enjoys  the  sweetest  fruits  of  innocence  and  virtue. 
Here  they  live  in  contentment  and  honor ;  and  when  I 
witnessed  their  placid  lives,  their  pious  labors,  their  active 
benevolence,  and  simple  virtues,  I  scarcely  knew  which  to 
love  and  admire  most ;  my  fair  and  gentle  cousin  Lucy, 
or  my  ancient  rival,  but  now  my  very  reverend  and  much 
honored  cousin,  "  the  schoolmaster." 


THE  ORPHANS 


BY   MISS  CAROLINE  E.  ROBERTS. 


Close — close  to  me,  little  one  !  here  on  my  knee, 
Let  me  fold  you  thus — thus  to  my  heart ; 

My  Willie !  oh,  fondly  I  love  you,  dear  child  ! 
God  grant  that  we  never  may  part ! 

We  are  poor  lonely  children — no  parents  we  have  ; 

Alone — quite  alone  now  are  we  ; 
In  this  wide,  weary  world,  no  kindred  or  friends ; 

There's  only  thee,  WilHe,  and  me. 

And  Willie,  vfe  ofttimes  will  come  to  this  wood. 

With  Ponto  to  keep  us  from  harm  ; 
Here  then  by  this  brook,  little  Willie  ;  and  I 

Will  fold  thee  thus — thus  in  my  arms. 

And  I'll  tell  thee  of  father,  so  brave  and  so  good. 
Who  loved  thee,  young  Willie,  and  me  ; 

But  who  died  far  away  on  the  ocean  so  wide. 
And  sleeps  in  the  fathomless  sea. 

And  I'll  tell  thee  of  mother,  dear  mother,  sweet  Will ! 

Wiio  lies  'neath  the  church-yard's  green  sod ; 
But  her  blessed  spirit  in  happiness  rests. 

At  peace  in  the  bosom  of  God. 


-e'^/ 


i 


THE     ORPHANS 


289 


And  of  little  pet  Mary,  and  Johnny,  our  brotliei-. 
Whose  graves,  side  by  side,  may  be  seen  ; 

When  the  daisies  and  violets  lift  up  their  heads, 
On  those  small  mounds  so  fresh  and  so  green. 

And  so,  little  Willie,  no  one  is  now  left, 

But  only  thy  sister  and  thee  ; 
Alone — quite  alone,  in  this  weary  wide  world. 

No  parents  or  kindred  have  we. 

God  bless  thee,  wee  Willie,  my  little  pet  lamb  ! 

God  guard  thee  by  night  and  by  day  ; 
Enfold  thee  about  with  the  arms  of  his  love. 

That  thy  little  feet  never  may  stray. 

And  lead  thee  at  length,  little  Willie,  and  me. 

To  the  pastures  of  heavenly  love  ; 
Where  by  those  "  still  waters,"  our  wanderings  all  o'er, 

We  may  rest  in  his  mansions  above. 


GOLDEN    DREAMS 


BY     WILLIAM     L.     STONE. 


I  AM  not  one  of  those  fortunate  dofjs  who  are  born  into 
this  wicked  world  having  their  ears  ah-eady  ringed  with 
gold,  silver  spoons  in  their  mouths,  and  diamonds  sparkling 
upon  their  fingers  ;  and  who,  of  course,  have  nothing  to  do 
but  vegetate  and  grow  rich.  But  still  I  can  build  as 
many  castles  in  the  air,  and  adorn  them  with  as  much 
splendor  as  other  people,  since  the  building-lots  cost 
nothing ;  and  I  sometimes  have  golden  visions,  as  well 
as  the  brokers.  Nor  do  they  vanish  much  sooner  than 
I  have  seen  some  fortunes.  Very  lately  I  was  the  rich- 
est man  north  of  Me.xico,  and  remained  so  for  some  time. 
I  will  tell  the  good  public  how  it  was. 

Taking  a  lounge  upon  the  old  sofa  one  afternoon,  not 
a  great  while  since — but  no  matter  exactly  when — and 
feelino:  none  of  the  britrhtest  for  having  been  detained 
abroad  on  the  preceding  evening  to  a  late  hour,  by  the 
mao-ic  influence  of  bright  eyes  and  dulcet  voices,  I  was 
soon  overtaken  by  a  dream,  which  1  will  attempt  to 
relate  ;  tliouorh  I  have  not  the  lani;uage  at  command  to 
enable  me  to  describe  it  in  such  glowing  colors  as  the 
remnants  of  the  vision,  which  are  indistinctly  floating 
in  beautiful  fragments  through  my  imagination,  seem  to 
possess.  As  well  might  the  painter  attempt  to  adorn 
the  meadow  of  his  landscape   with  the  glittering  dew- 


GOLDENDREAMS.  291 

drops  "which  deck  the  original  as  with  liquid   pearl,    or 
think  to  catch   the  brightness  and  glory  of  the   melting 
sunbeams  as  they  dance  upon  the  watery  clouds,  tinging 
their  fleecy  edges  with  molten  gold.     I  had  but  recently 
returned  from  a  tour  through   the   delio-htful  resfions  of 
Western  New- York  ;  and  as  my  eyes  began  to  swim,  and 
my  senses  to  float  away  in  utter  forgetfulness  of  the  cares 
of  this  world,  I  was  suddenly  transported  by  bright-eyed 
fancy  to  the  charming   shores  of  the  beautiful  Owasco 
Lake.     Presently  afterwards,    the  mind  having   entirely 
"  shufiled  off"  this  mortal  coil,"  and  beina:  no  longer  fet- 
tered  by  time  and  space,  I  found  myself  straying  leisurely 
from  the  shore  through  a  deep  forest  of  tall  and  stately 
trees,   the  primitive  growth  of  the  rich  slopes  and  hillsides 
of  the  west.     It  was  on  a  lovely  autumnal  afternoon  ; 
a  light  haze  hung  lazily  in  the  air,  and  thickened  in  the 
distant   horizon,  softening   and   mellowing    the    intenser 
light  of  the  sun,  which  in  turn  imparted  to  the  sky  and 
the  atmosphere  that  bright  orange  hue,  at  times  lending 
such  richness  and  beauty  to  that  delightful  portion  of  the 
falling  season,  known  as  the  Indian  summer.     "  The  time 
of  the  singing  of  birds"  was  past,  and  my  walk  was  not 
serenaded  by  those  cheerful  little  warblers  which  in  the 
vernal  season  would  have  been  hopping  and  twittering 
from  twig  to  twig,   enlivening  the  solitude,  and  making 
the   forest  vocal  with   their   melodies.     But  there   were 
other    objects   of    sufficient    interest   and    attraction   to 
occupy  the  mind.     The  trees  had  fallen  into   "  the  sear 
and    yellow  leaf ;"  and    as    the   withering    foliage    was 
dropping  silently  to  the  earth,  it  was  a  source  of  plea- 
sure, not  unmingled  with  pensiveness,  to  look  upon  the 
various    beautiful  hues  with  which  the  frosty  fingers  of 
Nature  had  pencilled  the  leaves,  from  the  dark  purple 


292  THE     MOSS-ROSE 


and  crimson  of  the  oak,  to  the  bright  scarlet  and  yellow 
of  the  maple,  and  the  russet  brown  of  the  beech.     A  soli- 
tary crow  rose   with   lazy  wing  from   the  decaying  limb 
of  a  tree ;    now  and  then  a  few  straggling  pigeons  hov- 
ered among  the  branches  over  my  head,  having  alighted 
to  rest  on  their  return  journey  to  the  south  :  and  Moore's 
noisy  woodpecker  was   yet  "  tapping  the  hollow  beech- 
tree  ;"    while   the    busy  squirrels    were    chirping    briskly 
about,  as  these  industrious    and    providential  little  crea- 
tures were   gathering  in  their  winter   supphes  of   maize 
and  nuts.     My  walk  thus  enlivened,  and  my  mind  thus 
pleasingly  occupied  by  the  numerous   objects  of  attention 
and    contemplation,    above    and    around    me,     I    strolled 
leisurely   along   for   several   hours,    unconsciously   as   it 
were,  and  without  any  determinate  purpose.     At  length 
I  reached  a  mound  like  the  remains  of  an  artificial  breast- 
work of  earth  and  stones,   evidently   piled  together  by 
human  hands,  and  under  the  direction  of  those  possessino- 
some   knowledge   of  strategy   and   the  science    of  war. 
But  so  long  ago  had  the  mound  been  reared,  that  the 
largest  and  tallest  trees  had  planted  themselves  thereon, 
as  securely  as  their  giant  neighbors  upon  the  surrounding 
plain.      At  the  foot  of  this  wall,  or  embankment,    beneath 
the  highest  point,  disclosing  through  the  earth  the  rao-tred 
side  of  a  ledge  of  rock,  near  the  roots  of  a  lofty  maple, 
issued  a  clear  spring  of  living  water.     Here  then,  me- 
thought,  was  the  great  spring  which  once  supplied  the 
garrison.      Here  have  the  dusky  chieftains  of  the  forest 
—  the   mighty  Nimrods  of  unwritten  aboriginal  history — 
slaked  their   thirst  for  ages  •  on  ages   before  the  leaves 
of  these  trees  ever  rustled  beneath  the  white  man's  tread. 
How  many  grim  visages,   thought  1,  have  been  rellected 
from   the  bright  waters  of   this  fountain,    ere  the   pale- 


GOLDEN     DREAMS.  293 

faces  taught  them  to  mingle  the  pure  element  with  the 
maddening  fire-water  !  How  many  councils  have  circled 
this  little  spot — how  many  thrilling  traditions  have  been 
told,  and  how  many  spirit-stirring  songs  of  war  have 
been  sung !  While  thus  musing  upon  its  brink,  and 
looking  upon  its  clear,  bright  waters,  the  beautiful  though 
melancholy  inscription  near  a  deserted  fountain  in  Cash- 
mere, occurred  to  me  :  "  Many,  like  me,  have  viewed 
this  fountain,  but  they  are  gone,  and  their  eyes  are  closed 
forever  !"  But  it  seemed  now  as  though  the  fountain 
had  not  for  a  long  time  been  visited,  unless  by  the  elk  and 
the  stag.  The  channel  of  the  rivulet  was  choked,  and 
the  spring  itself  half-filled  with  brushwood  and  decay- 
ing vegetables.  Regarding  it  with  feelings  approaching 
a  holy  reverence,  I  forthwith  commenced  the  work  of 
cleansing  it  by  removing  the  rubbish,  and  opening  a  little 
trench,  that  the  waters  mig-ht  flow  into  the  neiirhborinsr 
valley  in  a  clear,  bright  stream,  instead  of  being  com- 
pelled to  ooze  sluggishly  through  the  vegetable  mire 
which  had  filled  its  native,  and  once  pebbly  bed.  In 
displacing  the  earth  and  stones  which  had  accumulated 
in  the  well,  I  threw  out  many  fragments  of  an  ancient 
wall,  which  must  at  some  remote  period  have  tumbled  in ; 
and  while  engaged  in  this  labor,  I  caught  hold  of  a  stone, 
at  nearly  an  arm's  length  below  the  surface  of  the  water, 
which  felt  rough,  and  came  up  heavily.  What  was 
my  amazement  and  delight,  however,  when  after  tugging 
some  time,  on  bringing  it  up,  I  found  it  studded  and 
glittering  with  gems !  The  stone  was  about  eighteen 
inches  long  by  ten  in  width,  rhomboidal  in  shape,  and 
the  most  beautiful  and  valuable  precious  stones,  strangely 
intermingled,  completely  covered  it  on  every  side.  The 
diameter  of  the  gems  seemed  to  be  about  an  inch  ;  and 


294 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


although  they  were  but  rude  pebbles  in  shape,  and 
roughness  of  surface,  having  never  passed  the  hands 
of  the  lapidary,  yet  methought  they  glittered  and  spark- 
led, as  I  held  the  mass  up  to  the  play  of  the  sunbeams, 
with  the  most  dazzling  lustre.  The  valley  of  diamonds 
of  the  oriental  legend  could  not  have  looked  more  re- 
splendently  or  shot  forth  more  effulgent  rays.  There 
were  amethysts,  some  of  violet  color,  others  bordering 
on  purple,  and  others  again  tinctured  with  yellow  ;  "  living 
sapphires"  of  the  purest  blue,  and  of  the  finest  azure, 
with  some  of  a  still  paler  lustre  ;  the  beryl,  of  a  bluish, 
transparent  green,  of  various  degrees  ;  the  delicate  ruby, 
of  pale  red,  or  red  mingled  with  purple  ;  the  emerald, 
of  the  deepest  green  and  richest  lustre ;  gems  of  onyx, 
transparent  and  variegated  with  belts  and  veins,  bluish 
and  now  white  ;  and  the  still  more  resplendent  diamond, 
pellucid  and  sparkling  with  intensest  brilliancy,  was  thickly 
studded  there.  Richly  commingled  with  these  was  the 
deep  red  and  glowing  carbuncle,  varying  its  hues  with  the 
position  in  which  it  was  held,  until,  turning  it  directly  to 
the  sun,  it  lost  its  beautiful,  soft  tinge,  and  shone  in- 
tensely like  a  burning  coal ;  yellow  golden  topazes  were 
sprinkled  amongst  them,  some  of  which  were  lightly  and 
beautifully  clouded  like  the  Bohemian  ;  the  reddish  and 
bloody-colored  sardine  was  sparsely  intermingled,  with 
numbers  of  the  lazulia,  deep  blue  and  half  transparent, 
enriched  with  delicate  spots  and  stars  of  gold.  Added  to 
this  splendid  array  of  tieasurcs  from  the  palace  of  the 
gnomes,  a  few  of  the  humbler  goms — jaspers,  white,  red, 
brown,  bluish,  and  green  ;  crystals,  clear  and  limpid  as 
water  ;  carnelians,  of  all  the  varieties ;  and  agates,  some 
of  which  were  of  deep  green,  irregulaily  sprinkled  with 
red.     But  the  nobler  gems  predominated.     Such  was  the 


GOLDEN     D  REAM  S 


295 


prize  now  sparkling  and  glittering  in  my  hands  with 
gladdening  lustre.  The  largest  and  more  brilliant  gems, 
methought,  shot  back  the  sunbeams,  reflecting  a  thousand 
beautiful  hues,  which,  as  they  became  mingled  and  blend- 
ed together,  formed  a  halo  around  me  rich  and  bright  as 
the  soft  tints  of  the  melting  rainbow.  Travellers  have 
told  us  of  what  has  been  called  the  double  refraction  of 
the  sun's  rays,  somewhere  on  the  coast  of  Candia,  which 
tint  every  shadow,  so  that  shadows  fall  upon  the  ship's 
deck  sometimes  of  azure  blue  ;  now  assuming  a  yellowish, 
and  now  a  reddish  tint ;  now  varying  from  blue  to  green, 
and  now  succeeded  by  the  deep  glow  of  evening  crimson. 
So  with  the  halo  emitted,  so  richly  and  brilliantly,  from 
this  clustering  mass  of  gems,  mingling  their  thousand 
bright  and  varying  hues  into  a  soft  glowing  circle  of  com- 
mingling beauty — of  radiating  glory  !  Long  were  my 
ravished  senses  chained  to  the  contemplation  of  this 
splendid  treasure.  At  length  I  attempted  to  pluck  a 
noble  diamond,  of  surpassing  brilliancy,  from  between  a 
carbuncle  and  a  lazulia,  when,  lo  !  the  whole  became 
loosened,  and  I  shelled  them  off  into  my  handkerchief — as 
precious,  as  perfect,  and  as  brilliant  a  collection  of  jewels 
as  the  napkin  full  which  the  mother  of  Aladdin  presented 
to  the  sultan,  on  demanding  the  incomparable  princess 
Badroulboudour,  for  the  wife  of  her  vagabond  son.  But  • 
what  was  my  farther  surprise  on  finding  that  the  stone 
upon  which  these  magnificent  gems  had  been  set  by  the 
hand  of  Nature,  which  was  of  a  whitish,  clayey  slate, 
contained  an  accurate  map  of  the  city  of  New  York  ;  its 
streets  and  houses,  its  domes  and  lofty  spires,  with  gallant 
ships  and  gay  steamers  moored  at  the  wharves  !  That  this 
picture  could  have  been  the  work  of  man  was  impossible, 
since  the  stone  had  doubtless  been  imbedded  there  for 


296 


THE     MOSS-ROSE. 


ages — long  ere  this  occidental  world  had  been  discovered — 
and  the  colors  had  been  written  in  the  stone  by  the  pencil 
of  Nature.  To  rae,  the  discovery  of  a  drawing  of  my 
favorite  city,  not  in  its  infancy,  but  in  the  full  extent  of  its 
present  wealth  and  magnificence,  imbedded  within  a  mass 
of  precious  stones  of  unparalleled  size  and  beauty,  and 
painted  by  the  finger  of  the  Almighty,  bears  an  emblem 
of  the  prosperity  which  is  to  attend  it,  and  the  splendor 
and  glory  to  which  it  will  attain.  But  my  attention  soon 
reverted  to  my  own  personal  concerns,  and  the  unexam- 
pled treasures  which  it  was  my  happy  lot  to  bear  back 
from  my  afternoon's  ramble.  I  felt  proudly  conscious 
that  there  was  no  longer  a  man  in  America  who  could  vie 
with  me  in  fortune,  nor  could  the  crown  jewels  of  the 
richest  potentate  on  earth  be  compared  with  mine.  But 
my  heart  was  not  to  be  closed  to  the  charities  of  life,  and 
I  resolved  to  select  beautiful  presents  for  my  friends,  and 
make  ample  provision  for  ray  less  fortunate  relatives.  It 
was,  therefore,  with  emotions  of  the  most  aflfectionate 
pride,  that  I  anticipated  the  splendid  and  dazzling  array 
of  jewels  with  which  my  wife  would  now  mingle  in  the 
gayest  circles  of  wealth  and  magnificence.  With  these 
feelings  I  sat  me  down  to  select  first  and  foremost  for  her, 
the  richest  gems  in  the  collection,  to  be  set  for  a  necklace, 
•  bracelets,  and  a  coronet.  Diamonds,  sapphires,  and 
beryls  ;  the  lazulia,  the  topaz,  and  the  emerald,  were  to 
sparkle  in  profusion  upon  her  person — no  mortal  could 
have  been  more  happy  than  I  ;  and  the  golden  vision  con- 
tinued until  the  spell  was  broken,  the  charm  dissolved, 
by  an  unlocked  for  and  very  impertinent  intrusion.  I 
fancied  that  some  one  from  behind  had  seized  me  by  the 
arm — probably  with  the  design  of  robbing  me  of  my 
newly  acquired  treasures.     I  sprang  upon  my  feet  and  as- 


GOLDEN     DREAMS.  297 

sumed  a  posture  of  defense  ;  but  there  was  no  serious 
demand  upon  my  courage.  The  audacious  intruder  was 
only  my  faithful  servant,  who  had  shaken  me  from  a  glori- 
ous siesta  upon  the  sofa,  merely  to  say,  "  Mr.  Doolittle, 
Mr.  Doolittle,  can't  you  let  me  have  two  dollars  to  pay 
the  milkman ;  he  has  already  ax'd  for  it  a  number  of 
timee  !"  Here  was  a  pail  of  ice- water !  My  wrapt  senses 
were  speedily  called  back  to  the  dull  reality  of  this  poor 
world ;  for,  without  rummaging  my  pockets,  I  was  quite 
sensible  of  being  worse  off  than  "  the  captain  bold  of 
Halifax,"  who,  if  the  song  be  true,  actually  had  a  one 
pound  note  in  the  pocket  of  his  regimental  small-clothes, 
with  which  the  "  unfortunate  Miss  Bailey"  was  very  well 
satisfied. 


14 


FALL    FROM    PARADISE 


BY       E.      P.       H. 


The  glorious  sun  was  beaming 

Upon  a  sinless  world, 
And,  like  proud  banners  streaming, 

The  blue  skies  seemed  unfurled. 
Beneath  the  folds  were  peering 

Spirits  with  lov'C-lit  eyes, 
To  smile  upon  tlie  new-born  sphere, 

For  Earth  was  Paradise. 

Sweet  flowers  were  ever  blushing, 

Fruits  luscious  met  the  eye ; 
And  joyous  streamlets  gushing, 

Welled  forth  their  praise  on  high  ; 
And  fragrant  were  the  dew-drops. 

All  pendent  from  the  trees  ; 
Bird-music  floated  through  the  air. 

In  every  answering  breeze. 

The  tremulous  orauije-flowers 

Their  balmy  drops  distilled, 
As,  in  those  sliady  bowers, 

They  sat  with  rapture  lilled. 
And  fearless  our  first  parents 

In  Holy  presence  stood  ; 
Or  flew  to  welcome  to  their  hearts 

The  Omnipotent  and  Good. 


FALL     FROM     PARADISE.  299 

But,  lo  !  the  skies  are  darkened. 

Approaching  thunders  roll ; 
Alas  !  hath  woman  hearkened 

To  sin,  and  lost  her  soul  ? 
Tears  fall  from  weeping  angels, 

M  usic  is  silent  now  ; 
And  from  His  sight  the  tempted  flee, 

For  guilt  is  on  their  brow. 

Yes,  weep,  celestial  spirits  ; 

Weep,  fallen  human  kind  ; 
Weep,  that  your  race  inherits 

Sin,  sorrow,  nature  blind  ; 
And  weep,  ye  drooping  willows, 

Beside  the  moaning  stream. 
For  Eden's  bowers  are  desolate, 

Without  a  sunny  beam. 

Yet  Mercy  comes  with  healing — 

Jehovah's  promised  Son, 
Our  own  redemption  sealing, 

A  glorious  crown  hath  won. 
Emanuel,  our  Saviour, 

Left  the  bright  throne  above, 
And  tasted  death  that  we  might  live. 

And  share  the  Father's  love. 

Oh,  woman  !  last  created. 

And  first  to  sin,  beware  ! 
To  death  and  sorrow  fated, 

Oh,  guard  your  trust  with  care  ! 
Deal  gently  with  the  erring, 

Let  fervent  prayers  arise  ; 
And  train  young  souls  for  brighter  realms. 

For  Heaven  is  Paradise. 


ELLEN 


BY     MISS      MARY      RUSSELL      MITFORD. 


A  VERY  small  gift  may  sometimes  cause  great  pleasure. 
I  have  just  received  a  present  which  has  delighted  me 
more  than  anything  ever  bestowed  on  me  by  friends  or 
fortune.  It  is — but  my  readers  shall  guess  what  it  is; 
and,  that  they  may  be  enabled  to  do  so,  I  must  tell  them 
a  story. 

Charlotte  and  Ellen  Page  were  the  twin  daughters  of 
the  rector  of  N.,  a  small  town  in  Dorsetshire.  They  were 
his  only  children,  having  lost  their  mother  shortly  after 
their  birth  ;  and,  as  their  father  was  highly  connected, 
and  still  more  highly  accomplished,  and  possessed  good 
church  preferment,  with  a  considerable  private  fortune, 
they  were  reared  and  educated  in  the  most  liberal  and 
expensive  style.  Whilst  mere  infants  they  had  been  un- 
commonly beautiful,  and  as  remarkably  alike  as  occasional- 
ly happens  with  twin  sisters,  distinguished  only  by  some 
ornament  of  dress.  Their  very  nurse,  as  she  used  to 
boast,  could  hardly  tell  her  pretty  "  couplets"  apart,  so 
exactly  alike  were  the  soft  blue  eyes,  the  rosy  cheeks,  the 
cherry  lips,  and  the  curly  light  hair.  Change  the  tur- 
quoise necklace  for  the  coral,  and  nurse  herself  would 
not  know  Charlotte  from  Ellen.  This  pretty  puzzle,  this 
inconvenience,  of  which  mammas  and  aiuUs,  and  grand- 
mammas love  to  complain,  did  not  last  long.     Either  from 


4 


ELLEN.  301 

a  concealed  fall,  or  from  original  delicacy  of  habit,  the 
little  Ellen  faded  and  drooped  almost  into  deformity. 
There  was  no  visible  defect  in  her  shape,  except  a  slight 
and  almost  imperceptible  lameness  when  in  quick  motion ; 
but  there  was  the  marked  and  peculiar  look  in  the  fea- 
tures, the  languor  and  debility,  and  above  all,  the  distress- 
ing consciousness  attendant  upon  imperfect  formation ; 
and,  at  the  age  of  twenty  years,  the  contrast  between  the 
sisters  was  even  more  striking  than  the  likeness  had  been 
at  two. 

Charlotte  was  a  fine,  blooming,  noble-looking  girl, 
rather  above  the  middle  height ;  her  eyes  and  complexion 
sparkled  and  glowed  with  life  and  health ;  her  rosy  lips 
seemed  made  for  smiles,  and  her  glossy  brown  hair  played 
in  natural  ringlets  round  her  dimpled  face.  Her  manner 
was  a  happy  mixture  of  the  playful  and  the  gentle  ;  frank, 
innocent,  and  fearless,  she  relied  with  a  sweet  confidence 
on  every  body's  kindness,  and  was  ready  to  be  pleased, 
and  secure  of  pleasing.  Her  artlessness  and  naivete  had 
great  success  in  society,  especially  as  they  were  united 
with  the  most  perfect  good-breeding,  and  considerable 
quickness  and  talent.  Her  musical  powers  were  of  the 
most  delightful  kind ;  she  sang  exquisitely,  joining,  to 
great  taste  and  science,  a  life,  and  freedom,  and  buoyancy, 
quite  unusual  in  that  artificial  personage,  a  young  lady. 
Her  clear  and  ringing  notes  had  the  effect  of  a  milk-maid's 
song,  as  if  a  mere  ebullition  of  animal  spirits  ;  there  was 
no  resisting  the  contagion  of  Charlotte's  glee.  She  was  a 
general  favorite,  and  above  all,  a  favorite  at  home — the 
apple  of  her  father's  eye,  the  pride  and  ornament  of 
his  house,  and  the  delight  and  comfort  of  his  life.  The 
two  children  had  been  as  much  alike,  and  born  so  nearly 
together,  that  the  precedence  in  age  had  never  been  de- 
14* 


302 


THE     MOSS-ROSE 


finitely  settled ;  but  that  point  seemed  very  early  to  decide 
itself.  Unintentionally,  as  it  were,  Charlotte  took  the 
lead,  gave  invitations,  received  visitors,  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  becoming  in  fact,  and  in  name,  Miss  Page,  while 
her  sister  continued  Miss  Ellen. 

Poor  Ellen  !  she  was  short,  and  thin,  and  sickly,  and 
pale,  with  no  personal  charm  but  the  tender  expression  of 
her  blue  eyes  and  the  timid  sweetness  of  her  countenance. 
The  resemblance  to  her  sister  had  vanished  altogether, 
except  when  very  rarely  some  strong  emotion  of  pleasure, 
a  word  of  praise,  or  a  look  of  kindness  from  her  father, 
would  bring  a  smile  and  a  blush  at  once  into  her  face,  and 
lighten  it  up  like  a  sunbeam.  Then,  for  a  passing  moment, 
she  was  like  Charlotte,  and  even  prettier-:— and  there  was 
so  much  of  mind,  of  soul,  in  the  transitory  beauty.  In 
manner  she  was  unchangeably  gentle  and  distressingly  shy 
— shy  even  to  awkwardness.  Shame  and  fear  clung  to 
her  like  her  shadow.  In  company  she  could  neither  sing, 
nor  play,  nor  speak,  without  trembling,  especially  when  her 
father  was  present.  Her  awe  of  him  was  inexpressible. 
Mr.  Page  was  a  man  of  considerable  talent  and  acquire- 
ment, of  polished  and  elegant  manners,  and  great  con- 
versational power — quick,  ready,  and  sarcastic.  He  never 
condescended  to  scold  ;  but  there  was  something  very 
formidable  in  the  keen  glance,  and  the  cutting  jest,  to 
which  poor  Ellen's  want  of  presence  of  mind  frequently 
exposed  her — something  from  which  she  shrank  into  the 
very  earth.  He  was  a  good  man  too,  and  a  kind  father 
• — at  least  he  meant  to  be  so — attentive  to  her  health 
and  comfort,  strictly  impartial  in  favors  and  presents,  in 
pocket-money  and  amusements  ;  making  no  ditference  be- 
tween the  twins,  except  that  which  he  could  not  help,  the 
difference  in  his  love.     But,  to  an  apprehensive  temper 


ELLEN.  303 

and  affectionate  heart,  that  was  everything  ;  and  whilst 
Charlotte  flourished  and  blossomed  like  a  rose  in  the  sun- 
shine, Ellen  sickened  and  withered  like  the  same  plant  in 
the  shade. 

Mr.  Page  lost  much  enjoyment  by  this  unfortunate  par- 
tiality ;  for  he  had    taste    enough   to    have    particularly 
valued  the  hicrh  endowments  which  formed  the  delight  of 
the   few  friends  to  whom  his  daughter   was  intimately 
known.     To  them  not  only  her  varied  and  accurate  ac- 
quirements, but  her  singular  richness  of  mind,  her  grace 
and  propriety  of  expression,  and  fertility  of  idea,  joined  to 
the  most  perfect  ignorance  of  her  own  superiority,  ren- 
dered her  an  object  of  as  much  admiration  as  interest.    In 
poetry,  especially,  her  justness  of  taste  and  quickness  of 
feeling  were  almost  unrivalled.      She  was  no  poet  herself, 
never,  I  believe,  even  ventured  to  compose  a  sonnet ;  and 
her  enjoyment  of  high  literature  was  certainly  the  keener 
for  that  wise  abstinence  from  a  vain  competition.     Her 
admiration  was  really   worth  having.     The  tears  would 
come  into  her  eyes,  the  book  would  fall  from  her  hand, 
and  she  would  sit  lost  in  ecstasy  over  some  noble  passage, 
till  praise,   worthy  of   the  theme,   would  burst  in   un- 
conscious eloquence  from  her  lips. 

But  the  real  charm  of  Ellen  Page  lay  in  the  softness  of 
her  heart  and  the  generosity  of  her  character  :  no  human 
being  was  ever  so  free  from  selfishness,  in  all  its  varied 
and  cUnging  forms.  She  literally  forgot  herself  in  her 
pure  and  ardent  sympathy  with  all  whom  she  loved,  or 
all  to  whom  she  could  be  useful.  There  were  no  limits  to 
her  indulgence,  no  bounds  to  her  candor.  Shy  and  timid 
as  she  was,  she  forgot  her  fears  to  plead  for  the  innocent, 
or  the  penitent,  or  even  the  guilty.  She  was  the  excixser- 
general  of   the  neighborhood,  turned  every  speech  and 


I 


304  THE     MOSS-ROSE.. 

action  the  sunny  side  without,  and  often  in  her  good-na- 
tured acuteness  hit  on  the  real  principle  of  action,  when 
the  cunning  and  the  worldly-wise,  and  the  cynical,  and 
such  as  look  only  for  bad  motives,  had  failed.  She  had, 
too,  that  rare  quality,  a  genuine  sympathy,  not  only  with 
the  sorrowful — there  is  a  pride  in  that  feeling,  a  superior- 
ity ;  we  have  all  plenty  of  that — but  with  the  happy. 
She  could  smile  with  those  who  smiled,  as  well  as  weep 
with  those  who  wept,  and  rejoice  in  a  success  which  she 
had  not  contributed,  protected  from  every  touch  of  envy, 
no  less  by  her  noble  spirit  than  by  her  pure  humility  :  she 
never  thought  of  herself. 

So  constituted,  it  may  be  imagined  that  she  was  to  all 
who  really  knew  her,  an  object  of  intense  admiration  and 
love.  Servants,  children,  poor  people,  all  adored  Miss 
Ellen.  She  had  other  friends  in  her  own  rank  of  life, 
who  had  found  her  out — many  ;  but  her  chief  friend, 
her  principal  admirer,  she  who  loved  her  with  the  most 
entire  affection,  and  looked  up  to  her  with  the  most  de- 
voted respect,  was  her  sister.  Never  was  the  strong  and 
lovely  tie  of  twin-sisterhood  more  closely  knit  than  in 
these  two  charming  young  women.  Ellen  looked  on  her 
favored  sister  with  a  pure  and  unjoalous  delight  that  made 
its  own  happiness,  a  spirit  of  candor  and  of  justice  that 
never  permitted  her  to  cast  a  shade  of  blame  on  the 
sweet  object  of  her  father's  partiality;  she  never,,  indeed, 
blamed  him  ;  it  seemed  to  her  so  natural  that  evory  one 
should  prL-fer  her  sister.  Charlotte,  on  the  other  hand, 
used  all  her  inlluencc  for  Ellen,  protected  and  defended 
her,  and  was  half  tcnijtted  to  murmur  at  an  aftection 
which  she  would  have  valued  more  if  shared  equally  with 
that  di;ar  friend.  Tluis  they  lived  in  peace  and  harmony ; 
Cliarlotte'H  bolder  trmper  and  higher  spirits  leading  and 


ELLEN. 


305 


guiding  in  all  common  points,  ■n'hilst  on  the  more  im- 
portant she  implicitly  yielded  to  Ellen's  judgment.  But, 
when  they  had  reached  their  twenty-first  year,  a  great  evil 
threatened  one  of  the  sisters,  arising — strange  to  say — 
from  the  other's  happiness.  Charlotte,  the  reigning  helle 
of  an  extensive  and  affluent  neighborhood,  had  had  almost 
as  many  suitors  as  Penelope ;  but,  light-hearted,  happy  at 
home,  constantly  busy  and  gay,  she  had  taken  no  thought 
of  love,  and  she  always  struck  me  as  a  very  likely  subject 
for  an  old  maid  ;  yet  her  time  came  at  last.  A  young 
man,  the  very  reverse  of  herself,  pale,  thoughtful,  gentle- 
manlike, and  melancholy,  wooed  and  won  our  fair  Euphro- 
syne.  He  was  the  second  son  of  a  noble  house,  and 
bred  to  the  church ;  and  it  was  agreed  between  the 
fathers,  that,  as  soon  as  he  should  be  ordained — for  he 
still  wanted  some  months  of  the  necessary  age — and 
settled  in  a  family  living  held  for  him  by  a  friend,  the 
young  couple  should  be  mai-ried. 

In  the  mean  while  Mr.  Page,  who  had  recently  succeed- 
ed to  some  property  in  Ireland,  found  it  necessary  to  go 
thither  for  a  short  time ;  and,  imwilling  to  take  his 
daughters  with  him,  as  his  estate  lay  in  the  disturbed  dis- 
tricts, he  indulged  us  with  their  company  during  his  ab- 
sence. They  came  to  us  in  the  bursting  spring-time,  on 
the  very  same  day  with  the  nightingale  ;  the  country  was 
new  to  them,  and  they  were  delighted  with  the  scenery 
and  with  our  cottage  hfe.  We,  on  our  part,  were  en- 
chanted with  our  young  guests.  Charlotte  was  certainly 
the  most  amiable  of  enamored  damsels,  for  love  with  her 
was  but  a  more  sparMing  and  smiling  form  of  happiness  ; 
all  that  there  was  of  care  and  fear  in  this  attachment  fell 
to  Ellen's  lot ;  but  even  she,  though  sighing  at  the  thought 


306  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

of  pfirting,  could  not  be  very  miserable  whilst  her  sister 
was  so  happy. 

A  few  days  after  their  arrival,  we  happened  to  dine 
with  our  accomplished  neighbors,  Colonel  Falkner  and  his 
sister.  Our  joung  friends,  of  course,  accompanied  us  ; 
and  a  similarity  of  ago,  of  liveliness,  and  of  musical  talent, 
speedily  recommended  Charlotte  and  Miss  Falkner  to  each 
other.  They  became  immediately  intimate,  and  were  soon 
almost  inseparable.     Ellen  at  first  hung  back. 

"  The  house  was  too  gay,  too  full  of  shifting  corapanj^ 
of  titles,  and  of  strange  faces.  Miss  Falkner  was  vciy 
kind  ;  but  she  took  too  much  notice  of  her,  introduced  her 
to  lords  and  ladies,  talked  of  her  drawings,  and  pressed 
her  to  sing ;  she  would  rather,  if  I  pleased,  stay  with  me, 
and  walk  in  the  coppice,  or  sit  in  the  arbor,  and  one 
might  read  Spenser  while  the  other  worked — that  would 
be  best  of  all.     Might  she  stay  ?" 

"  Oh,  surely  !  But  Colonel  Falkner,  KWt-n,  1  thought 
you  would  have  liked  him  ?" 

"  Yes !" 

"  That  yes  sounds  exceedingly  like  ?jo." 

"  Why,  is  he  not  almost  too  clever,  too  elegant,  too 
grand  a  man  ?  Too  mannered,  as  it  were  ?  Too  much 
like  what  one  fancies  of  a  prince — too  high  and  too  con- 
descending ?  These  are  strange  faults,"  continued  she, 
laughing,  "and  it  is  a  curious  injustice  that  I  should  dis- 
like a  man  merely  because  he  is  so  graceful,  that  he  makes 
me  feel  doubly  awkward — so  tall,  that  I  am  in  his  presence 
a  conscious  dwarf — so  alive  and  eloquent  in  conversation, 
that  I  feel  more  than  ever  puzzled*  and  unready.  But 
so  it  is.  To  say  the  truth,  I  am  more  afraid  of  iiiin  than 
any  human  being  in  the  world,  except  one.  I  may  stay 
with  you — may  1  not ;  and  read  of  Una  and  of  I^ritomart 


ELLEN.  307 

— that  prettiest  scene,  where  her  old  nurse  soothes  her  to 
sleep  ?     I  may  stay  ?" 

And  for  two  or  three  mornings  she  did  stay  with  me  ; 
but  Charlotte's  influence  and  Miss  Falkner's  kindness 
speedily  drew  her  to  Holly-grove,  at  first  shyly  and  re- 
luctantly, yet  soon  with  an  evident  though  quiet  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  we,  sure  that  our  young  visitors  could  gain 
nothing  but  good  in  such  society,  were  pleased  that  they 
should  so  vary  the  humble  home-scene. 

Colonel  Falkner  was  a  man  in  the  very  prime  of  life,  of 
that  happy  age  which  unites  the  grace  and  spirit  of  youth 
with  the  firmness  and  viofor  of  manhood.  The  heir  of  a 
large  fortune,  he  had  served  in  the  Peninsula  war,  fought 
in  Spain  and  France,  and,  quitting  the  army  at  the  peace, 
had  loitered  about  Germany,  and  Italy,  and  Greece,  and 
only  returned  on  the  death  of  his  father,  two  or  three 
years  back,  to  reside  on  the  family  estate,  where  he  had 
won  "  golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people."  He  was, 
as  Ellen  truly  described  him,  tall  and  graceful,  and  well- 
bred,  almost  to  a  fault.  He  certainly  did  excel  rather  too 
much  in  the  mere  forms  of  politeness,  in  clokings  and 
bowings,  and  handings  down  stairs  ;  but  then  he  was 
thoroughly  imbued  with  its  finer  essence — considerate, 
attentive,  kind,  in  the  most  comprehensive  sense  of  that 
comprehensive  word.  I  have  certainly  known  men  of 
deeper  learning  and  more  original  genius,  but  never  anv 
one  whose  powers  were  better  adapted  to  conversation,  who 
could  blend  more  happily  the  most  varied  and  extensive 
knowledge  with  the  most  playful  wit  and  the  most  interest- 
ing and  amiable  character.  Fascinating  was  the  word  that 
seemed  made  for  him.  His  conversation  was  entirely  free 
from  trickery  and  display — the  charm  was,  or  seemed  to 
be,  perfectly  natural ;  he  was  an  excellent  listener ;  and 


308  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

when  he  was  speaking  to  any  eminent  person — orator,  artist, 
or  poet — I  have  sometimes  seen  a  slight  hesitation,  a  mo- 
mentary diffidence,  as  attractive  as  it  was  unexpected.  It 
was  this  astonishing  evidence  of  fellow-feeling,  joined  to  the 
gentleness  of  his  tone,  the  sweetness  of  his  smile,  and  his 
studied  avoidance  of  all  particular  notice  or  attention,  that 
first  reconciled  Ellen  to  Colonel  Falkner.  His  sister,  too, 
a  charming  young  woman,  as  like  him  as  Viola  to  Sebas- 
tian, began  to  understand  the  sensitive  properties  of  this 
shrinking  and  delicate  flower,  which,  left  to  itself,  repaid 
their  kind  neglect  by  unfolding,  in  a  manner  that  siu-pris- 
ed  and  delighted  us  all.  Before  the  spring  had  glided 
into  summer,  Ellen  was  as  much  at  home  at  Holly- grove 
as  with  us ;  and  talked,  and  laughed,  and  played,  and 
sang,  as  freely  as  Charlotte.  She  would,  indeed,  break 
off,  if  visibly  listened  to,  either  when  speaking  or  singing  ; 
but  still  the  ice  was  broken ;  that  rich,  low,  mellow  voice, 
unrivalled  in  pathos  and  sweetness,  might  be  heard  every 
evening,  even  by  the  colonel,  with  little  more  precaution, 
not  to  disturb  her  by  praise  or  notice,  than  would  be  used 
with  her  fellow-warbler  the  niffhtino-ale. 

She  was  happy  at  Holly-grove,  and  we  were  delighted ; 
but  so  shifting  and  various  are  human  feelings  and  wishes, 
that,  as  the  summer  wore  on,  before  the  hay-making  was 
over  in  its  beautiful  park,  Avhilst  the  bees  were  still  in  its 
hme-trees,  and  the  golden  beetle  lurked  in  its  white  rose, 
I  began  to  lament  that  she  had  ever  seen  Holly-grove,  or 
known  its  master.  It  was  clear  to  me,  that  unintentional- 
ly on  his  part,  unwittingly  on  hers,  her  heart  was  gone — 
and,  considering  the  merit  of  the  unconscious  possessor, 
probably  gone  forever.  She  had  all  the  ])retty  marks  of 
love  at  that  happy  moment  when  the  name  ;yul  nature  of 
the  passion  are  alike  unsuspected  by  the  victim.     To  her 


ELLEN 


309 


there  was  but  one  object  in  the  whole  world,  and  that  one 
was  Colonel  Falkner  :  she  lived  only  in  his  presence ; 
hung  on  his  words  ;  was  restless,  and  knew  not  why,  in 
his  absence ;  adopted  his  tastes  and  opinions,  which 
differed  from  hers  as  those  of  clever  men  so  frequently  do 
from  those  of  clever  women  ;  read  the  books  he  praised, 
and  praised  them  too,  deserting  our  old  idols,  Spenser 
and  Fletcher,  for  his  favorites,  Dryden  and  Pope ;  sang 
the  songs  he  loved  as  she  walked  about  the  house  ;  drew 
his  features  instead  of  Milton's  in  a  portrait  which  she  was 
copying  for  me  of  our  great  poet — and  finally,  wrote  his 
name  on  the  margin.  She  moved  as  in  a  dream — a  dream 
as  innocent  as  it  was  delicious — but  oh,  the  sad,  sad 
waking!  It  made  my  heart  ache  to  think  of  the  misery 
to  'which  that  fine  and  sensitive  mind  seemed  to  be  re- 
served. 

Ellen  was  formed  for  constancy  and  suffering — it  was 
her  first  love,  and  it  would  be  her  last.  I  had  no  hope 
that  her  affection  was  returned.  Young  men,  talk  as  they 
may  of  mental  attractions,  are  commonly  the  slaves  of 
personal  charms.  Colonel  Falkner,  especially,  was  a  pro- 
fessed admirer  of  beauty.  I  had  even  sometimes  fancied 
that  he  was  caught  by  Charlotte's,  and  had,  therefore, 
taken  an  opportunity  to  commimicate  her  engagement  to 
his  sister.  Certainly  he  paid  our  fair  and  blooming  guest 
extraordinary  attention !  anything  of  gallantry  or  com- 
pliment was  always  addressed  to  her,  and  so  for  the  most 
part  was  his  gay  and  captivating  conversation  ;  whilst  his 
manner  to  Ellen,  though  exquisitely  soft  and  kind,  seemed 
rather  that  of  an  affectionate  brother.     I  had  no  hopes. 

Affairs  were  in  this  posture  when  I  was  at  once  grieved 
and  relieved  by  the  unexpected  recall  of  our  young  visitors. 
Their  father  had  completed  his  business  in  Ireland,  and 


310  THE    MOSS-ROSE. 

was  easrer  to  return  to  his  dear  home,  and  his  dear  chil- 
dren;  Charlotte's  lover,  too,  was  ordained,  and  was  im- 
patient to  possess  his  promised  treasure.  The  intended 
biidegroom  was  to  arrive  th e  same  evening  to  escort  the 
fair  sisters,  and  the  journey  was  to  take  place  the  next 
day.  Imagine  the  revulsion  of  feeling  produced  by  a 
short  note,  a  bit  of  folded  paper — the  natural  and  re- 
doubled ecstasy  of  Charlotte — the  mingled  emotions  of 
Ellen.  She  wept  bitterly  ;  at  first  she  called  it  joy — ^joy 
that  she  should  again  see  her  dear  father  ;  then  it  was 
grief  to  lose  her  dear  Charlotte  ;  grief  to  part  from  me  ; 
but,  when  she  threw  herself  in  a  farewell  embrace  on  the 
neck  of  Miss  Falkner,  whose  brother  happened  to  be  ab- 
sent for  a  few  days  on  business,  the  truth  appeared  to 
burst  upon  her  at  once,  in  a  gush  of  agony,  that  seemed 
likely  to  break  her  heart. 

Miss  Falkner  was  deeply  affected  ;  begged  her  to  write 
to  her  often,  very  often  ;  loaded  her  with  the  gifts  of  little 
price,  the  valueless  tokens  which  aflfection  holds  so  dear, 
and  stole  one  of  her  fair  ringlets  in  return. 

"  This  is  the  curl  which  William  used  to  admire,"  said 
she — "  have  you  no  message  for  poor  William  ?" 

Poor  Ellen  !  her  blushes  spoke,  and  the  tears  dropped 
from  her  downcast  eyes ;  but  she  liad  no  utterance. 
Charlotte,  however,  came  to  her  relief  with  a  profusion  of 
thanks  and  compliments ;  and  Ellen,  weeping  with  a  voice 
that  would  not  be  controlled,  at  last  left  Holly-grove. 

The  next  day  we  too  lost  our  dear  young  friends.  Oh, 
what  a  sad  day  it  was !  how  much  we  missed  Charlotte's 
bright  smile  and  Ellen's  sweet  coni})lacency  !  We  walked 
about  desolate  and  forlorn,  with  the  painful  sense  of  want 
and  insufficiency,  and  of  (hat  vacancy  in  our  home,  and  at 
our  board,  which   the  departure  «)f  a  cherished  guest  is 


ELLEN.  311 


sure  to  occasion.  To  lament  the  absence  of  Charlotte, 
the  dear  Charlotte,  the  happiest  of  the  happy,  was  pure 
selfishness  ;  but  of  the  aching  heart  of  Ellen,  my  dear 
Ellen,  1  could  not  bear  to  think — and  yet  I  could  think  of 
nothing  else,  could  call  up  no  other  image  than  her  pale 
and  trembhng  form,  weeping  and  sobbing  as  I  had  seen 
her  at  Holly-grove  ;  she  haunted  even  my  dreams. 

Early  the  ensuing  morning  I  was  called  down  to  the 
colonel,  and  found  him  in  the  garden.  He  apologized  for 
his  unseasonable  intrusion  ;  talked  of  the  weather,  then  of 
the  loss  which  our  society  had  sustained;  blushed  and 
hesitated  ;  had  again  recourse  to  the  weather ;  and,  at  last, 
by  a  mighty  effort,  after  two  or  three  sentences  begun  and 
unfinished,  contrived,  with  an  embarrassment  more  grace- 
ful and  becoming  than  all  his  polished  readiness,  to  ask 
me  to  furnish  him  with  a  letter  to  Mr.  Page. 

"  You  must  have  seen,"  said  he,  coloring  and  smiling, 
"  that  I  was  captivated  by  your  beautiful  friend ;  and  I 
hope — I  could  have  wished  to  have  spoken  first  to  her- 
self, to  have  made  an  interest — but  still  if  her  affections 
are  disengaged — tell  me,  you  who  must  know,  you  who 
are  always  my  friend,  have  I  any  chance  ?  Is  she  dis- 
engaged ?" 

"  Alas  !  I  have  sometimes  feared  this  ;  but  I  thought 
you  had  heard — your  sister  at  least  was  aware" — 

"  Of  what  ?  It  was  but  this  very  morning — aware  of 
what  ?" 

"Of  Charlotte's  engagement." 

"  Charlotte !  It  is  of  Ellen,  not  her  sister,  that  I  speak 
and  think.  Of  Ellen,  the  pure,  the  delicate,  the  divine  ! 
That  whitest  and  sweetest  of  flowers ;  the  jasmine,  th© 
myrtle,  the  tube-rose  among  women,"  continued  he, 
elucidating  his  similes  by  gathering  a  sprig  of  each  plant, 


312  THE     MOSS-ROSE. 

as  he  paced  quickly  up  and  down  the  garden  walk — "  El- 
len, the  fairest  and  the  best ;  your  darhng  and  mine  ! 
Will  you  give  me  a  letter  to  her  father  ?  And  will  you 
wish  me  success  ?" 

"  Will  I  ?  Oh,  how  sincerely  !  My  dear  colonel,  I  beg 
a  thousand  pardons  for  undervaluing  your  taste — for  sus- 
pecting you  of  preferring  a  damask  rose  to  a  blossomed 
myrtle;  I  should  have  known  you  better."  And  then  we 
talked  of  Ellen,  dear  Ellen — talked  and  praised  till  even 
the  lover's  heart  was  satisfied.  I  am  convinced  that  he 
went  away  that  morning  persuaded  that  I  was  one  of  the 
cleverest  women  and  the  best  judges  of  character  that 
ever  lived. 

And  now  my  story  is  over.  What  need  to  say,  that  the 
letter  was  written  with  the  warmest  zeal,  and  received 
with  the  most  cordial  graciousness — or  that  Ellen,  though 
shedding  sweet  tears,  bore  the  shock  of  joy  better  than 
the  shock  of  grief — or  that  the  twin-sisters  were  married 
on  the  same  day,  at  the  same  altar,  each  to  the  man 
of  her  heart,  and  each  with  every  prospect  of  more  than 
common  felicity  ?  What  need  to  say  this  ?  Or  having 
said  this,  why  should  I  tell  what  was  the  gift  that 
enchanted  me  ?  I  will  not  tell ;  my  readers  shall  decide 
according  to  their  several  fancies  between  silver  favors  or 
bridal  gloves,  or  the  magical  wedding  cake  drawn  nine 
times  through  the  ring. 


